Substance & Style
by S. Faith
Summary: Mark had a choice to make, and he chose... poorly. Now he's paying the price. Column universe. M rating for chapter 4. Trigger warning for an angry temper and a punch.
1. Chapter 1: Regrets

**Substance & Style**

By S. Faith, © 2016  
Words: 25,937  
Rating: M / R  
Summary: Mark had a choice to make, and he chose… poorly. Now he's paying the price.  
Disclaimer: Really not mine. Except maybe for Kevin.  
Notes: Based mostly in column universe, inspired by the column from 23 May 1998. Trigger warning for an angry temper and a punch.

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Regrets**

 **Late June – mid-July**

He supposed he had it coming.

'Fuckwit' was a term Mark had learned from her, which was fairly ironic considering that he had been just that when it came to her. He had backed the wrong horse, such as it was. His decision had been hugely short-sighted, and he regretted it deeply. Now he was paying the price. And he deserved it.

It was almost as if he sensed her arrival before he actually saw her. She had just come in to the same restaurant to which he had come, and his gaze lingered a little too long in her direction. He looked away before his date could notice. But then he glanced up again. He couldn't help it. It was hard to keep your eyes off of the woman you loved, a woman you no longer deserved.

She looked beautiful, though. Bridget always did. Her hair was down, loose on her shoulders, slightly wind-blown. She was smiling, he realised, at the man that accompanied her, a towering figure with a clearly athletic physique and model-good looks: chiselled features, blond hair, blue eyes. Peevishly, Mark wondered if she had picked the man for looking as opposite to himself in almost every way possible.

Quickly Mark looked away once more to the table before him, before he was noticed. It would not do to draw that kind of attention towards himself, or worse luck, towards her. Towards them. His date would not have approved. He could not let Bridget's presence be noticed, not by her. He didn't want a scene. And Bridget didn't deserve one.

But all through dinner his eyes drifted Bridget's way; he was pretty sure she hadn't spotted him. She looked happy, and he was glad for that, but not glad that this unknown man was the reason for that luminous smile.

"You're very quiet tonight," came the voice, Rebecca's, shattering his thoughts; she had a way of speaking that made him never sure of her intent, calm yet shrill at the same time, somehow. Of course, the nuance was not something he had picked up on initially. He had learned, eventually. Learned too late. But he'd made this bed. No choice but to lie in it.

"Did you hear me?"

He wished he had a newspaper to read, to pretend to be engrossed in it. He met her gaze. "Yes, sorry, was thinking about a new case just come in this week."

She looked dubious, but he was always beginning a new case, as in-demand as he was. "You'd think you could spare a thought for _me_ during our date, Mark," she said icily, but then smiled. "What did you think of the veal?" she asked, then said, not waiting for his answer, "A bit too dry, if you ask me, but the rice was very nice."

"I agree," he said. It was often so much easier to just say that he agreed.

"Oh, Mark, just offer an _honest_ _opinion_ on something for a change," she barked, startling him. Not loud enough to cause a scene, but loud enough.

"I was agreeing," he said tersely; he didn't actually agree, but he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction.

She glared at him. " _Ten_ minutes ago I said the _veal_ was good and the _rice_ was dry. You're not even listening to me. What is going on? Where is your head tonight? What keeps distracting—"

She stopped cold, then swivelled around to look behind her, stopping when she obviously spotted Bridget. Slowly Rebecca turned to face him, clearly fuming, nostrils flaring, but saying nothing about it. Not immediately, anyway.

"We're leaving now," she said, then rose and swept out. He also rose, briefly glancing to the table at which Bridget and her date was sitting. He didn't expect to see her looking directly at him—he supposed Rebecca's exit was something of a scene, though—with an almost sympathetic expression on her face. So like her. He merely kept his own expression neutral, nodding to her in acknowledgement, then left.

"So I guess that's the new boyfriend," Rebecca said, almost flippantly, as they approached his car. "Something like a doctor or a surgeon or whatever. He's far handsomer than I'd heard, but…" She made a dismissive sound, spinning to face him as they reached the vehicle, brows furrowed, finger pointed at him accusingly. "I won't have you gawking at them, Mark. It's disrespectful to me."

 _Not them_ , he thought. _Her_. But, he realised, it was at the very least rude, and he said he was sorry.

With fences suitably mended, he then found an excuse to drop her off and return to his own home alone. Always having his phone on vibrate meant urgent calls were easy to fake.

As he washed up and prepared to bed, he realised he didn't know which torment was worse: to remain in this farce of a relationship with a woman he didn't love simply because it would be too damaging to his social currency to leave; or to watch Bridget moving on without him, looking happy, with someone who clearly was happy with her.

It wasn't until he was reaching to switch of the bedside lamp that he wondered how he hadn't heard about the new boyfriend. Doctor, surgeon… a respectable, intelligent man to get that far in his career. Mark couldn't even get the twisted satisfaction of seeing her end up with someone far beneath her.

This torment had to end. He couldn't take it anymore.

Before he knew it he had his phone in his hand, and he heard it ringing on the other end.

"Mark, what is it? Something wrong?"

He should have just called Bridget directly, but he wasn't that brave. "Mother. No, nothing is wrong. I just had a question."

"At half eleven at night?"

He glanced to the clock, felt immediately terrible. "I'm very sorry to have bothered you at this hour."

"Well, now that you have," she said, a bit testily, "what is your question?"

"I saw Bridget out tonight," he said. "With a man I didn't recognise. Do you know anything more about him?"

"Oh, Mark, for pity's sake," she said. "Just call her."

"I can't do that," he said. "I'm not going to call and disrupt her life if she's… if she's happy with this fellow. I just want to know more about him."

His mother sighed. "I heard all about him from Pam. His name's Kevin McKenzie. He's a apparently very successful surgeon from Scotland. Just came down, apparently; met Bridget during his first week here."

"Don't tell me, in A&E."

"As a matter of fact, yes, it was," she said. "Nothing serious. Something to do with work." _Dropping her down more firemen's poles?_ he thought as she went on. "But he was doing a shift and he helped her."

"Helped her?" he said, wondering how ethical it would be for a doctor to date one of their patients.

"I don't know the details, Mark," she said impatiently. "I've told you what I know."

"And he's decent?"

"As best as I know, based on a very brief meeting with him as I brought her back her cake pan… and from what Pam's said," said his mother, "but we all know she's a bit biased, and I think she enjoys telling me these things knowing what I do."

"Knowing what?"

"Knowing that you still love Bridget," she said. "You're as transparent as a pane of glass."

He offered a feeble goodbye, then disconnected the call. He shouldn't have been surprised that his mother could read him like a book, but he was. But even more shocking to him was that Pam Jones had already met this new boyfriend, in the Jones family home.

How serious was this relationship, anyway?

 **July**

Rebecca had gone for the weekend with a group of friends—a pang of pain, recalling who was once part of that group—down to Paris. He supposed it was meant to punish him for the scene at the restaurant, but in all honesty he was grateful for the peace and quiet, and the lack of stress.

He decided to head to his gym for the first time in at least a month, maybe longer; there was always someone around that was interested in picking up a round or two of squash, and the physical exertion was something he needed.

He had just finished donning his gym kit, was just tying his court shoes, when he heard the rattle of a nearby storage locker opening. Mark glanced up, momentarily stunned into silence, looking at the newcomer a lot longer than he should have looked.

It was the good doctor, himself.

Mark looked back to his laces, then up again just as the doctor looked to him. "Cheers," he said with a smile, at once warm, friendly, and approachable.

"Hello," Mark said.

"Pretty new here myself, but haven't seen you around before," he said. Mark could hear the accent; not heavy, but definitely there. He then reached forward, his hand outstretched. "I'm Kevin McKenzie."

Mark accepted; far more extroverted than himself. Far more jovial, indeed, but who could blame him? Firm handshake. "Mark Darcy," he said. "Pleased to meet you."

If Bridget had ever mentioned him by name, Kevin showed no sign at all of recognition. "Likewise," said Kevin. "Just popping in for a round of squash."

The coincidence was almost too much, but he was careful not to let it show. "Was looking for a match, myself," said Mark, grasping his racket and holding it up.

"If you don't mind a bit of a wait, I'll take you up on that," Kevin said. That grin again, disarming.

"Sure," said Mark. "Great. I'll go and grab a free court."

"I think I saw three was available," Kevin said. "See you down there."

Court three was, indeed, free. After slipping on his protective goggles, Mark took the ball, bounced it against the wall with the racket to get in a little practise before Kevin showed up. It was hard not to picture Kevin's face on the ball, but better to do it now than do it once the man was in the court with him. He had to do an interrogation so subtle that Kevin McKenzie couldn't have the slightest idea it was being done.

"Sorry to have taken so long."

Mark reached to still the ball as it bounced directly into his palm. "It's all right," he said. "Just warming up. Shall we?"

Kevin slipped his own goggles down over his eyes. "Let's."

The match was on, the ball in play, and they'd found their groove when Kevin asked the first question. "Been in London long?"

Mark grinned. "Since law school," he said, lobbing the ball. "You?"

"Just three months," he said. "A lawyer, eh?"

"Yes," he said. "And you?"

"Surgeon," he said. "Orthopaedic, specialising in paediatrics."

"What brought you all the way down to London?"

"Needed a change of scenery," he said. "All the way down. Is it that obvious, where I'm from?"

"The accent comes through, yes," Mark said. "Any reason in particular you chose London?"

"Had a feeling I'd find something special here," he said. "Or some _one_."

This statement caught him so off-guard that Kevin scored the point—the stroke—on him.

"Go ahead and serve," Kevin said, tossing the ball to Mark.

Mark did just that, then picked up the thread of the conversation by asking, "Any luck so far?"

"I'm managing," Kevin said. He was smiling, though. Broadly. "Okay, more than managing."

Mark got the impression Kevin wanted to talk about it, but hesitated for some reason. Mark wanted nothing more to hear him talk about her, and so encouraged him with, "Oh? How do you mean?"

"In my second week here, I actually did meet someone special," he said. "She's warm, smart, funny, sharp as a— _Oh_ , good shot. Stroke is yours."

Returning the lob, Mark had swung a little harder than he'd intended, resulting in the point.

Once the ball was in play again, Mark prompted, "You were saying?"

"Ah, right, yeah," he said. "I was telling you about Bree."

"Bree?" Now Mark was confused.

"My gal. Well, her name's actually Bridget, but Bree is closer to the Scots Gaelic." Kevin lobbed the ball with a backhand, then went on, "Sharp as a whip and gorgeous to boot."

"Sounds like you're very lucky."

"I am _beyond_ lucky," he said. "She's a gift. Truly. That last chap of hers was a damned fool, but I can't be sorry—or I wouldn't be with her."

Mark didn't say much more than necessary for the rest of the match. In the end, Kevin bested him. Again, apparently. And the worst part? Kevin seemed to be a decent fellow. Mark actually liked him.

…

"Mark Darcy, what are you playing at?"

He had been surprised beyond reason to see Bridget's number pop up on his mobile that next morning; he should have guessed the reason for her call. "I don't know what you mean."

"Kevin," she said. "My new _boyfriend_. He came over for dinner last night after stopping at the gym hoping to pick up a round of squash. Told me he'd played against someone who sounded suspiciously like you, and when I asked for the name—"

"Bridget, it was a total coincidence," he said. He quickly realised he had a level of plausible deniability. It certainly _hadn't_ been planned; the fact that he'd already seen Kevin McKenzie before was immaterial. "I was just tying my shoes when he came in, and we struck up a conversation. During the match, as he talked about his 'Bree', I realised who he was talking about." He paused. "I didn't pry." _Though I wanted to_ , he added in thought only.

"Hmm," she said. Her temper seemed to have cooled. "Terribly coincidental that you both ended up at the same gym."

"That's all it is. Coincidence," Mark said. After a beat, he said, "If you're happy, that's all that matters. You deserve to be happy."

She didn't say anything immediately. It was so quiet he couldn't begin to gauge what her response would be. When she spoke, he was no closer to guessing. "Thank you," she said. "Look, I… have to go."

"All right," Mark said. "Nice to hear from you. I mean it."

"Goodbye."

And then she disconnected the call.

 **End of August**

Momentum being what it was, Mark's relationship with Rebecca stayed in its own unique limbo throughout July and August; at the end of that month, he was surprised at her talk of leaving early the Friday morning. He didn't want to ask for details. He realised he must have agreed to something without registering what it was. Whatever the weekend held would be his penance for not listening.

She told him she was driving, which she often did. He supposed it was indicative of their relationship in general. He didn't care. He spent most of the drive reading through the newest volume of one of his professional journals, the sound of classical strings pleasantly humming around the cabin of the automobile.

He glanced up once just as they passed a sign for a turnoff. It brought him no closer to understanding where they were going. He assumed it was to spend the weekend at a hotel, or more probable still, at the country home of one of her very well-off friends.

"Here we are!" Rebecca announced in a sing-song trill, causing him to look up as she pulled into a crescent-shaped drive and rolling to a stop directly in front of a stately home. He took in the tall colonnaded portico, just as a woman emerged from the front door, a hand raised in greeting.

It was only then that a dawning dread overcame him. He recognised the woman as Magda. Rebecca's friend… and Bridget's. He wondered if Bridget would be there. He didn't know if he hoped she would be, or wouldn't. As they emerged from the vehicle, Magda's expression changed, her cheery expression faltering… but only briefly.

"Hi!" said Magda. "Just in time for some lunch." She looked to Mark with a tight smile. "Mark, hello. Nice to see you again. How are you?"

"I'm well, thanks," he said. "You?"

"Very well, thanks," she said. "Well. Come on in. I'll show you to your room, and then you can come down for food."

"You're always _so_ lovely, _so_ accommodating, Magda _darling_ ," Rebecca said. Overcompensating already.

One to their room, Magda left, and Rebecca closed the door behind her. She turned to Mark with a grin. "What do you say," she said, reaching for his hand, placing it on her hip, "if we're a bit late to lunch?"

Sex? Was she actually alluding to sex? After not seeming to be interested for a week or more, why now? He had his suspicions. He withdrew his hand from her, stepping back. "I'm actually quite hungry, Rebecca. Let's go down."

There was a moment, fleeting but unmistakeable, when her features exposed how she really felt before she recovered. She was pissed off. "Of course," she said gaily. "Just thought it might help work out the stiff joints from the drive."

"We can take a walk around the garden after we eat," he said.

"Fine," she said, her tone as stiff as Magda's smile had been. "That sounds fine."

Dinner was a spread of antipasto and a pitcher of what turned out to be sangria. He helped himself to a plate of food, poured himself and Rebecca a glass of the wine. "Oh, Mark dear, will you get me something?" she called from where she'd taken a seat at the table. "You know what I like."

"Of course," he said, picking through the meats and cheeses, making a selection for her. Balancing the two plates and two glasses in his hands, he brought them to where she sat.

"Oh, you're a love," she cooed, then took her plate.

There were others there, too; aside from Jude and Sharon, there were three more vaguely familiar women he was sure he'd met before, though introductions were made all the same. Mark noticed something, however; they were exchanging glances in a peculiar way. He wondered what was going on.

He didn't see Bridget, though. It was early, though, and Bridget was many things, but early was rarely one of them. He smirked at the thought.

"We didn't expect _you_ here, Rebecca," said Sharon in her characteristically brazen way, with an extra sneer directed at Mark.

Magda muttered, "Neither did I."

Simultaneously, Rebecca said, "Well, of _course_ I was going to come! I haven't seen any of you in far too long… and it's about time to mend fences, I think."

Mark was sure he wasn't meant to hear what Magda had said, but he did. If Rebecca heard it, she pretended she hadn't, but she was so wrapped up in delivering her grand response that he suspected she hadn't.

He realised, though, that Rebecca had invited herself to this weekend in the country, bringing himself with her. He was completely mortified. As Rebecca nattered on to Jude, asking how her boyfriend was, Mark rose and said quietly to Magda, "I'm sorry. I didn't know. We can leave if you'd rather—"

Magda looked mortified, too; mortified that he had heard her. "No, really, it'll be fine," she said. "The room's free because Woney cancelled, and… well, Bridget's bringing her new beau, so seeing you and Rebecca here shouldn't be too awkward, should it?"

"It'll be fine," he said, though if he were to be honest, hearing the words 'Bridget' and 'her new beau' did send a pang of pain through him. "We're all adults."

She smiled, and it was genuine; maybe she was relieved to learn he wasn't remotely as inconsiderate as Rebecca was.

When they were finished eating, Mark asked Rebecca if she wanted to take that walk. She beamed a smile. "Oh, I know I said we could, but I think I'll pass for now," she said. "I'm far too eager to chat with the girls."

He could take the hint. He decided to take that walk on his own.

The weather had been oppressively hot in the city, but out here in the country, while it was still warm, the cool breeze and the tree shade was enough to make it bearable, even pleasant. He took in a deep breath. It was nice, the peace and quiet; the clean air, the sound of birdsong. Beyond the back patio, beyond the herbaceous borders, was countryside as far as the eye could see. Mark followed the path around, to the meticulously tended koi pond, to the gently bubbling fountain. _Really pushed out the boat on the country home_ , he thought. But it was beautiful and the perfect antidote for hectic city life in the high-pressure job that both he and Jeremy, Magda's husband, did.

On the gravel behind him, he heard footsteps approaching. He assumed it would be Rebecca, but when he turned, to his surprise, it was Kevin.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said. The man had his hands shoved down into the front pockets of his jeans.

"Hello," Mark said. "Look, I feel like I should explain—"

"It's not necessary," Kevin interrupted. "It's a small world, as the saying goes."

"It really was a coincidence."

"No worries," he said. He looked around at the broad expanse of blue sky, the rustling green leaves. "It's really beautiful out here."

"It really is." After a moment more of silence, Mark realised he should continue making small talk. It might allow him to find out more. "Trust you had a good drive up?"

"Not bad," he said. "You?"

"Same," said Mark, who found himself mirroring Kevin, shoving his hands into his own trouser pockets. It had been more than a month since his encounter in the gym with the man. Clearly things were still quite on track, going well enough to spend a weekend in the country together. Mark didn't know what else to say, and apparently, neither did Kevin.

Another set of footfalls approached, this time rapidly; it was Bridget skipping down the path towards them. She was looking at Kevin, smiling, and then threw her arms around his neck from behind, hanging slightly from his tall form… before spotting Mark standing further down the lane. Immediately, her smile fell, and she let go of Kevin, stepping away. "Oh," she said. "Hello, Mark."

"Hello, Bridget," he said, not taking his eyes from her. "I'll, um, leave you to your walk." He headed past them and back towards the house; as he walked away, he decided to risk a backwards glance. He wished he hadn't. Kevin had her hand in his, was bent down low, saying something quietly before giving her a kiss.

Upon entering the house again, he was met with a scowl by Rebecca. "You were out there an awfully long time," she said.

"I was enjoying the fresh air," he said, then kept right on walking past her in search of a quiet room in which he could read. He wanted to be alone. He found a library, and after browsing for a few minutes, he found something to read that looked intriguing. Something called _Cold Mountain_. In fact, he became so engrossed that he was truly startled to hear Magda's voice interrupting his thoughts what turned out to be a few hours later.

"There you are!" she said, smiling. "Just wanted to let you know that dinner's at nine. Going to do a barbecue in the back garden. It'll be the perfect night for it."

"Great," he said. "Thank you."

She paused; honestly, it looked like she was about to say something more, but she didn't. She just smiled then retreated.

With a sigh, he set the book aside. He supposed he should go find Rebecca, go back to the room and ensure he was presentable for dinner.

Rebecca was already in the room, examining her makeup in the mirror. "Where've _you_ been?" she asked, turning her gaze towards him.

"Reading," he said. "Magda says we're doing a barbecue for dinner."

"Well, that sounds fun," she said. He couldn't tell if she was being sincere or sarcastic. She turned to Mark, a devilish grin playing upon her lips. "We _do_ have a little time before dinner," she said.

He knew what she was suggesting. He was utterly disinterested, and far too distracted by Bridget's proximity to be able to perform in any way, shape, or form. "Ah, yes, thanks for that," he said. "I had wanted to touch up shaving beforehand." He passed her by to grab his shaving kit.

She tried to hide her annoyance by switching immediately to bitchy mode. "I've been introduced at last to Bridget's new boyfriend," she said. "Quite charming."

"Seems to be," he muttered.

"Very handsome."

"Hmm," Mark said noncommittally. "Pardon me." He paused, then added, "Feel free to head down without me if I'm not done in time."

She said nothing. He left.

As he judiciously shaved the minuscule stubble, he could only think again and again, _Break up with her, for God's sake. Break up with her._

No social fallout could be worse than continuing this flimsy pretence of a relationship.

…

When Mark had finished shaving, he found that indeed, Rebecca had headed downstairs for dinner without him. Upon appearing in the back garden, a bottle of bitter was pressed into his hand by Magda, who offered a smile. "Food's very nearly done," she said. "Go sit down and relax."

He wondered what about his expression had prompted this comment.

Magda had really gone to town on the whole 'cookout' theme, with grilled burgers and chicken; tending to the grill was Jeremy, who looked eminently pleased to be in charge of it all. There were salads, chilled wine, beer; fairy lights strung up on the patio; a roaring fire in the copper pit.

He still hadn't seen Rebecca, but he did spot an empty chair and headed towards it. As he got closer, he realised that within very close proximity sat Kevin, and across his lap sat Bridget. They were too concentrated on what they were doing to pay Mark any mind; that was to say, they were in a tight embrace, indulging in a snog. Mark pivoted on the ball of his foot and decided to find another seat to settle in.

The garden area for dinner was not so large that he could escape the sight of them from his new seat, but it would have to do. He took a long draw off of his beer, then rested his head back. This weekend was going to be a living hell. It already was.

He didn't know how much time had passed, but he was brought from his ponderings by motion in his peripheral vision; it was Bridget, heading back into the house, probably to get herself chilled wine, if he were to guess. Where on earth was Rebecca, anyway? He was irritated at having been persuaded to come to the country, but he didn't actually wish for her to go missing.

"So, you're a surgeon?"

There she was. Mark turned slowly to see that Rebecca had perched herself on the arm of the chair where Kevin McKenzie was sat. He looked up at her, vaguely annoyed, but wishing to be polite. Rebecca didn't seem to notice that Mark was so near, or if she did, she didn't care. But he suspected that she was fully aware. "Yes," Kevin said. "I am."

"That must be _thrilling_!" said Rebecca. "And you're from Scotland."

"A regular Sherlock Holmes, you are," he said. Mark recognised the thinning edge of patience in his tone; it was one he used often enough, and one she never recognised. "And what about you?"

"I just have the _highest_ respect for doctors, especially _surgeons_ ," she said, totally deflecting his question of her. "The power of life and death in your hands! I can't imagine what that'd even be like." She struck a dramatic pose as she said this. "So how are you liking London? Getting all settled in?"

"Settling quite well, indeed," he said.

"Well, if there's anything I can do, anything at _all_ , don't hesitate to come to me," she said.

"Thanks, but if it's all the same to you, no thanks."

"Pardon?"

"Well, Rebecca," he said, "even if I were tempted—which I certainly am not—I've heard enough about you from Bree to serve as a sodden wet blanket. I know what you're up to."

She sat up rigidly. "I don't know _what_ you mean."

"Don't you?" Kevin asked. He looked like he was enjoying himself. "So you _don't_ enjoy stealing your girlfriends' men from them?" Kevin's gaze flicked in Mark's direction, surprising Mark; he'd had no idea Kevin had spotted him. "I hear you've done that before."

She brought her hand to her chest in a gesture of innocence.

"Now, my doll is returning," Kevin went on, looking to where Bridget was exiting the house. "So kindly fuck off."

She leapt to her feet, looking scandalised. " _What_ did you say to me?"

"I think you heard me well enough," Kevin said. "In case not, though…" Now he rose to his own feet, towering over her slender form with his imposing muscular one. "Fuck. Off."

Her skin paled even further in the twilight.

"Dinner's ready!" announced Jeremy in a most poorly-timed interruption.

None of the other guests budged, however. Bridget, just returned, looked utterly perplexed; she had apparently not heard the exchange.

Rebecca stalked off towards where Mark sat, proving his suspicions correct. "You're just going to sit there and let that man talk to me like that?"

He continued to just sit there. "As a matter of fact, yes," he said at last. "You are perfectly capable of defending yourself. I've heard you do it."

"Mark," she hissed.

"I, too, know what you were up to," he said, challenging her with his gaze.

She looked like the top of her head might just explode into flame. "I _won't_ be treated like this," she said. "We're leaving."

"Oh," said Magda, stepping in from near the grill, and placed her hand on Mark's shoulder. "Please don't feel you have to leave, Mark." She looked to Rebecca stonily. "Have a safe drive. We'll be sure to get Mark home safely."

He wasn't sure he wanted to spend the rest of the weekend in the close proximity of Bridget and her beau, but he wanted even less to spend the next two hours in the car with her. Thank goodness she'd insisted on driving.

"Is that it, then?" Rebecca said, hands on her hips, glaring at Mark. "Nothing more to say?"

At last, Mark rose to his feet, looking down at her. He offered a smile, not at her, but with relish at what he was about to say: "Fuck off."

With these words her face went bright red. She looked around herself, seemingly belatedly realising that she had an audience. Ordinarily she would have revelled in it. Right now, she clearly did not.

She stormed off.

He only hoped she would not be so spiteful as to take his own things away with her. But then Magda spoke again.

"I'll see her out," she said quietly. "Have something to eat. I'll make sure she doesn't take your bag."

For a man who regularly grilled intimidating individuals as a matter of course in court, somehow this exchange had completely worn Mark out. Aware of all eyes on him, at least until it became clear that the excitement was over, he went to get a plate of food. A piece of chicken, some salad. He found he didn't have much of an appetite; despite feeling a sense of relief that he had finally found it in himself to chuck her, it was still difficult to admit failure yet again. Particularly with evidence of his past failure on the other side of the garden.

He managed to eat all of the food he'd taken, though, and did so without being interrogated about how he was doing or how he felt. When Magda returned, she looked his way and gave him a thumbs-up to let him know that Rebecca had been successfully escorted out.

He drank his beer, turning to gaze into the fire in the fire pit. He had to admit, it was a lovely evening.

"Hey."

He looked to the side. Bridget was sat there with her own glass of wine.

"Hello," he said.

"Are you doing all right?"

"I'm fine." Deep down, he was. Or he would be. As fine as he could be, anyway.

"I don't think I've ever heard anyone speak to her like that before." A smirk played on her lips. "Well done."

"I only followed your boyfriend's lead," Mark said. She furrowed her brow. "She'd flirted with him. He told her the same thing I ended up telling her."

Mark looked to the fire again, then to the sky. It was ever closer to full dark; he could see the first of the stars making an appearance. To his surprise, she stayed there with him.

"Where's Kevin?" Mark asked.

"He decided to turn in," she said. "He's one of those 'early to bed, early to rise' types."

He chuckled. He couldn't help himself.

"I know exactly what you're thinking," she said. She was laughing a little, too. "It came as a great shock to me, I'll tell you."

The fire crackled and the wood shifted; he sat back in his seat, took in a deep breath. The day had been warm but the evening was pleasantly cool, and the stars were in abundance overhead. The next thing he knew, Bridget was touching his forearm. He'd dozed. Little wonder—it was probably the first time in a month he'd felt relaxed.

"You may want to turn in, too."

He sat forward, running his hand over his face. She was right. Being constantly on edge with Rebecca had taken its toll. "Good idea." He got to his feet, looked back down to her. "Goodnight, Bridget."

"Goodnight."

Mark slept soundly that night. He dreamt of Bridget, dreamt that they were walking on London Bridge, she from the south, and he from the north. However, no matter how long he walked towards her, and she, towards him, they never met.


	2. Chapter 2: Repercussions

**Substance & Style**

By S. Faith, © 2016  
Words: 25,937  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Repercussions**

 **End of August (Con't.)**

Mark was determined over the course of the weekend to forge—or re-forge—friendships that he had begun when he was in a relationship with Bridget. Surprisingly, when he went down for breakfast, they seemed very receptive to talking to him.

"Bravo to you," Sharon said, cradling her coffee cup with two hands, being especially unlike how she'd been the previous day to her. "I've only ever dreamt of telling her off like that. How _satisfying_ was that?"

"If she doesn't get the message after that, she's as thick as a brick," said Jude.

Magda came to the table just then. "So glad you didn't wait for me to start the coffee," she said. "And I see you found the pastries, too. I can whip up some eggs for breakfast if you like. Well. I'll make Jeremy do it."

Mark had just chosen a flaky apricot pastry, and he held it up. "I think this will be fine, thanks."

The rest of the party came down, one by one, and soon the large farm-style table was full of people, partaking of pastries, coffee, and orange juice. There was a notable absence, though. He tried not to think about it too much.

He was just about finished with his second pastry and cup of coffee when Bridget appeared. Her hair was towel-dried and her skin pink, as if she'd just stepped out of a shower. She smiled, but it was a little forced. "Sorry I'm late," she said.

"We saved you a chocolate croissant or three," said Sharon.

"Thanks," she said, going over to pour a coffee for herself.

"So where's Kevin?" asked Jude. He noticed Magda very nearly literally perk an ear.

"He let me have the shower first," she said. "He'll be down in a bit, I'm sure."

 _They didn't shower together_ , Mark thought. The more he thought about it, though, the more he thought it was probably just out of consideration for others.

"Hope he hurries, 'cause I'm eyeing those scones," warned Sharon with a wink.

"Did you sleep all right?" he heard Bridget ask. He looked up, and realised her question was directed towards him.

"Yes, just fine," he said. "You?"

"A bit restless," she said. "Definitely taking it easy today." She did look sleepy. Underneath her eyes, the skin looked a bit puffy. She picked up her coffee and drew a long sip.

"Everything all right?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, then smiled, though it was not particularly convincing. He wondered what had gone on the night before, or this morning. He wasn't going to pry, though.

As breakfast concluded, a few of them decided to go on a short hike through the woods surrounding the house. "Mark, do you want to come with?" asked Magda.

"Yes," he answered without hesitation. He didn't look to Bridget, and he didn't ask her if she was coming.

As it turned out, she didn't, nor did Kevin. Mark was grateful. He was starting to feel a little like a third wheel. The morning promised another warm day, but the shade of the trees in the woods flanking their back garden helped to keep the temperature a more moderate one. They had each brought a bottle of water, and planned to return by lunch. He trailed to the back of the group, then fell behind, until he could only hear the footsteps ahead of him. Being surrounded by the greenery felt rather grounding, actually. The cool breeze against his skin, ruffling through his hair… he took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. Days on end of courtroom battles, sheaves of papers, wars of words… he realised he needed to do things like this a lot more often.

"Mark?"

He heard his name called from somewhere up ahead. He increased his pace to catch up to the group. It had been Magda who had been searching for him. "Sorry for lagging behind," he said.

"It's okay, just didn't want to lose you out here," she said. "We're circling back now."

He stayed closer to the small group now as they made their way through the trees. Before long, they were approaching the house again over the more manicured garden, into and through the trellised back patio. They returned to find a refreshing pitcher of lemonade and sat drinking it for a bit.

"Hey, how did the walk go?"

It was Kevin, who picked up an apple and bit into it.

"It was lovely," Magda said. "How was holding down the fort here?"

"Oh, just fine."

"Where's Bee?" Magda asked. Mark thought he saw Sharon glance his way, as if to see if he'd react. He willed himself not to.

"She's curled up reading a book on the front porch," he said. "She found a copy of _Cold Mountain_ , said she'd been meaning to read." Mark was glad he'd prepared himself, because he would have normally reacted to these words. "So I hear we're doing a cold pasta salad for lunch?"

"If Jeremy did the pasta, yes," she said. "An Asian-style thing with soy and cabbage…"

"Sounds great."

Mark set his empty water bottle down, and wandered out of the room. He didn't have a destination, and the book he had begun was now otherwise occupied. He found himself at the window, not overlooking the porch where Bridget sat—that would have been weird—but out of the picture window overlooking the meadow. He watched some birds rising on the currents, dropping and twirling. He definitely needed more of this in his life.

"Hey, we're having lunch."

He turned; how long had he been gazing out of the window? It was Bridget.

"Oh. Thank you."

She smiled. She looked more well-rested.

"Enjoying your book?" he asked.

"Yes, it's very good," she said brightly. She looked eager to talk about it. Books were a very safe subject.

"I know. I was reading it yesterday for a bit. After… well, after Rebecca left."

"Ah," she said. "Oops. Sorry…" She looked stricken. "I think I took out your bookmark."

"Unforgiveable," he said with mock-sternness. "Seriously, don't worry. I'll find my place again."

"Lunch!" called Sharon from the other room. Bridget tilted her head towards the kitchen.

"Come on. Before it's all gone."

Lunch was filled with the sound of small talk, mostly about the walk. Mark didn't contribute much. He was enjoying the solitude of the country, but there was a certain restlessness settling in. Perhaps it was anticipation of returning to deal with the fallout of chucking Rebecca. Of course there would be fallout. He was grateful he had never given her a key to the house.

"Isn't that right, Mark?"

His attention snapped to at the sound of his own name. "I'm sorry, Sharon. I didn't hear that."

"Good," said Bridget. "She's being catty, Mark. Ignore her."

"Rebecca wasn't exactly kind to you," said Sharon. "I don't know _why_ you'd defend her."

"I'm not defending her," said Bridget. "I'm just not stooping to her level."

It was just the sort of thing she would say, one of the things he loved about her. He looked to his plate again, scooping the last of the pasta onto his fork.

"Lunch was _really_ good," said Jude. "You'll have to share that recipe."

"Thank you!" said Magda. "I found it in a magazine…"

Mark tuned out again. He didn't care about the recipe or its source.

Before long, they were clearing the table. There was talk of breaking out a board game, or watching an old film on the telly. Or both. He decided to join the board game when Bridget and Kevin decided to watch the film. He had no interest in sitting watching them be all cosy together.

Dinner (and post-dinner) was much the same, a careful dance around each other, passing the evening until it was time to retire again. Mark was among the first to do so, but delayed washing up before bed until he heard no more sounds in the house. After he finished, he wandered across the hall back to his room. Just as he opened the door, he heard it:

A moan, emanating from down the hall, short but distinctive. It was a sound he'd heard often enough before. He hurried into his room. He wished he could disappear.

Just one more day of this.

…

Mark ended up getting a ride back to the city with Magda and Jeremy. He was content to sit in relative silence and listen to the two of them having the most mundane conversation about household tasks, about the kids (who were with his parents for the weekend), about the next day's school run…

Breakfast had been awkward. Not on anyone's part but his own, mind, but awkward all the same. Bridget seemed a bit cheerier that day, as did Kevin. Little wonder. After a late breakfast they had all taken the time to pack up to get ready for the drive back, then had one last lunch before leaving.

"Hey, Mark, you all right back there?"

"Oh, yes, I'm fine."

Jeremy chuckled under his breath. "Still can't believe you chucked her!" he said. It had been rather show-stopping, telling Rebecca off quite so bluntly. But then he went on, and Mark realised he had misunderstood the man. "But she seems pretty happy now with that Kevin bloke. Certainly seems over you, old boy, eh?"

"Jerrers!" hissed Magda. "Sorry, Mark."

"It's all right," he said. Mark couldn't believe he'd chucked Bridget, either… and for what? Rebecca? Lost in his thoughts, he said very little for the remainder of the drive.

When he pushed the key into the door, he stepped into the foyer and directly onto what appeared to be a hand-delivered letter. From the perfumed scent wafting up from it, he knew before even opening it who had delivered it. Of course she had. She didn't have a backup lined up. She always decided when the relationship was over. She was not the one who got chucked; she was the one who did the chucking. She was attempting to re-establish control.

He bent and picked it up. He debated tossing it directly into the bin—possibly setting it on fire first—but he decided to be more mature about it. He reached for the letter opener then sliced along the edge. Her handwriting was elaborate and florid. As usual.

Dear Mark,

I'm so, so sorry for storming out, even sorrier that we couldn't talk it out afterwards. I'm sure there's been a huge misunderstanding here and I'm desperate to work things out with you. Please call me.

Rebecca xoxoxo

 _'Huge misunderstanding' is right_ , he thought. _Ever thinking you wanted anything more than a boyfriend of status. Ever thinking you cared about me… or honestly, for thinking I ever actually loved you. I bet you're desperate._

Then he pitched the letter into the bin. At least he'd done her the courtesy of reading it.

He went upstairs and emptied his bag, then went down to his kitchen to make something to eat. He realised his answerphone was blinking with a message. He didn't have any interest in playing it. He instinctively knew who'd left it.

The more he thought about it, though, the more he thought it might do him good to play it for fun. The glass of wine that he had with his dinner might have had something to do with convincing him of this. But then his phone rang again. He didn't answer it.

"Mark," said Rebecca, via the answerphone. She sounded as demure as a child, a tremor in her voice. Expert-level engineering. " _Please_ call me when you come in. I really feel that all we need to do is talk, and all will be right again. Such a _silly_ misunderstanding." She paused. "Mark, if you're there, and I _know_ you're there… pick up." Another pause; when she spoke again it was slightly firmer. "Mark. Call me as _soon_ as you can." And then she hung up. No 'please', no 'thank you'; she only issued demands to talk to him so that she could try to work her manipulation on him.

What a complete fool he had been. How totally blind he had been to her machinations, blind to the person she really was. He'd been so eager to have the approval of Bridget's friends that he never even noticed that the only so-called friend who had been nice to Mark hadn't even ever been nice to Bridget. If Bridget thought he was an idiot, he would have deserved it. She probably did think it.

He supposed the epiphany was better late than never, but he hated that he had ever been ensnared at all, a snare that had pulled him away from the woman he really loved.

 **Mid-September**

It seemed only a matter of time, Mark supposed, that he should end up going to a party that Bridget (and Kevin) also attended. It was mid-September at a charity event, and hadn't really expected to see either of them there. The connections made sense in retrospect, though. The event was really more like a drinks party, less like a gala, and it was sponsored in part by his bank, Brightlings, for whom Jude worked. And of course, Jude was one of Bridget's closest friends.

Mark spotted Kevin across the room first, actually, which sent his gaze flitting about looking for Bridget—and simultaneously hoping he did not find her, hoping that Kevin was here with someone else, that they had split. It was a terrible thing to wish for, and yet he did so, all the same.

But then he saw her, talking with Jude. She looked great. Then again, he always thought she looked great. She was wearing that shade of blue that best suited her—that dark, sapphire blue—and shoes with a moderately high heel. The dress was elegant and longer than she usually wore, but as she took a step backwards, he saw that there was a slit up the side to just above her knee.

He glanced away. It didn't help one bit to focus his attention on her exposed leg. He made as if he was scanning the room, and that was when he noticed that Kevin was looking directly at him. Mark nodded in acknowledgement, then walked away.

He headed directly for the bar and got himself a glass of red wine. He would have preferred a scotch, but thought it was best not to turn to hard liquor.

"One red wine and one chardonnay, please."

Mark glanced to the side; it was in fact Kevin, as if the accent hadn't given him away. "Hello," Mark said cordially. "Didn't expect to see the two of you here."

"Bridget decided to come to lend Jude support. Jude was in charge of putting this all together," he said. "She hardly seems the type to need support."

Mark said nothing. He had been privy to many conversations with a very insecure Jude when he was with Bridget, and was frankly surprised that Kevin had not.

"I suppose you're a client?" Kevin prompted.

"Oh, yes," Mark said. "My investments."

"Ah, well, that'd be in Jude's court," said Kevin, "no pun intended." He tapped the bar impatiently. "Where did they go for the wine, to France?"

It was very clear to Mark that Kevin wished to be anywhere but there talking to him, was eager to get the wine and bring it back to her.

"So sorry, sir," said the bartender, uncorking a newly fetched bottle of chardonnay.

"I was wondering if you'd gotten lost—Oh, hello, Mark."

"Hello," Mark said to Bridget. "Bumped into Kevin here at the bar," he said. "How are you?"

"Oh, fine, desperate for wine."

He chuckled quite against his will. _What else is new?_ he thought. "It was nice to see you again," he said. "Enjoy the party."

With that he wandered away from the bar, and over to where there were a few finger food selections from which to choose. He wasn't particularly hungry, but it gave him something to do.

"Ah, I see you made it."

Now it was Jude, who was smiling a little, though it seemed hesitant at best. He knew why. He was familiar enough with the Dating War Command code: one does not befriend one's girlfriend's ex.

"Indeed," he said. "Very nice work. I understand you organised this."

"I did," she said; her smile got a bit more genuine. "Thanks. Glad to see you here." It sounded like she meant it, which was a step in the right direction. "I should probably… you know."

"Mingle," Mark supplied. "I understand."

With another little smile she left his side. He took another sip of his drink, then picked up a cheese pinwheel for a nibble.

The party was not that large, so it was only a matter of time before normal crowd mingling brought him back into Bridget's orbit. He offered a polite smile, and willed himself not to allow his gaze to linger upon her for too long.

"So," Kevin said casually, but with obvious distaste, "where's Rebecca?"

Confused, he responded, "How should I know?"

"Oh, I just assumed…"

"Assumed what?"

Now Kevin looked a bit defensive, the tone of his voice almost aggressive. "That she'd found some way to… undo her damage."

It took a moment for the meaning to filter through. He was angered, but also understood, in a strange way. After all, he knew Rebecca pretty well, too, at this point.

"I just assumed," Bridget said, "that she'd found a way back in. You know. She can be very persuasive."

 _She's a good liar_ , Mark thought, which is what Bridget was really saying. Or rather, that he was a gullible fool.

"No," Mark said, in a clipped tone, meeting Bridget's gaze steadily and with equal challenge. "I'm completely through with her."

Bridget said nothing, but Kevin caught his attention with a scoff. In turn, that caused Bridget's cheeks to go pink. But before Mark had a chance to ask what that was supposed to mean, Kevin spoke up as he looked across the room.

"Hey, there's your friend Shaz," Kevin said. Mark looked too, spotted the opinionated blonde. "You wanted to talk with her, didn't you?"

"Oh, where? Oh, I see her," said Bridget. She spoke directly to Mark next. "Best be going. See you around."

"Goodbye."

Mark then watched Bridget walk away; she turned her head, and for a split-second he thought she might turn back to look at him. But she didn't. She was just speaking to Kevin.

He decided to circulate again, to mingle, and was just finishing his glass of wine when he heard his name, and his stomach turned instantly to ice. He hadn't expected to see Rebecca there. She wasn't a client of the bank, as far as he knew. How had she found out about it? How did she know he would be there?

"Mark," she said. "You haven't been returning my calls."

"There's a good reason for that," Mark said coldly. "I don't want to talk to you. This is a private event and you should go—"

"I _was_ invited," she said haughtily. "My family's business banks here."

"Whatever the case…" he said, then lowered his voice to add, "leave me alone." He turned, and only then saw that Rebecca's voice must have attracted Bridget's attention, because she was gazing directly at where Mark stood.

He'd had quite enough. He turned and began to stride away. He heard the click of high-heeled shoed behind him. To his horror, he realised she was following him, but worse than that, it probably looked like she had asked to speak to him and he was acquiescing. He turned back to her. She almost walked directly into him.

"I told you to leave me alone."

"But _Mark_ —" she began.

"No 'buts'. There is nothing you could say to me that would convince me to take you back."

"Even if I were pregnant?"

For many long moments he stared in silence, going slightly lightheaded, like the blood was rushing to his feet… and then he allowed a logical thought to flit through his brain. There was no way she was pregnant. There was never a time when they'd had unprotected sex, and she was also taking oral contraception. "But you're not."

"But what if I were?"

"There is absolutely no point to this conversation, Rebecca," he said. "I'm leaving and if you follow me, if you contact me again, I _will_ pursue a case with the police. Go. Away."

He turned and began walking away from her again. He didn't hear her following again, which relieved him. He hated the way he'd left things with Bridget, though. It was clear that she thought he was a gullible fool, and had told Kevin all about it, so the man thought of him as nothing more than a gullible fool, too, who deserved to lose the woman who was now his girlfriend.

Leaving the event brought him into close proximity of Bridget and Kevin again; as he passed them by, he heard Kevin say quietly, "Congratulations."

He stopped to look at them, specifically, to Bridget; she looked quite stricken, very pale. He was confused. "Congratulations for what?" he asked.

"It was difficult _not_ to overhear your conversation just now," Kevin said.

Mark realised with dread exactly what Rebecca had said, and not in what he'd consider a muted tone. "There is nothing to congratulate me about. She was speaking in hypotheticals. She's not pregnant." _But I'm sure Rebecca wouldn't be at all upset to hear that you thought otherwise_ , Mark thought. _In fact, she probably planned it that way_.

"Oh," said Bridget.

"Enjoy the rest of the party," Mark said curtly, then stalked away, forgetting everything he'd just considered about leaving things in a weird place with Bridget. He thought of it only later with regret.

…

Mark was grateful for his work, which occupied so much of his time and thoughts during the day, but in the evenings, it was difficult to escape the thoughts that inevitably came to him. He had to keep telling himself that being alone was better than being with someone who was only in it for themselves, but it didn't keep his nights from being too quiet, too lonely. And a little too fixated on what it was that Bridget might be doing at any given moment; particularly, he remembered that overheard moan, and wondered a little too much about whether she was in bed with him at that very moment.

Mark went regularly to the gym again. His rationale was that at least there would be people around. It seemed inevitable, then, that he should encounter Kevin there. He wondered if he had also subconsciously considered this in his decision to go to the gym.

"Hey," Kevin said, as Mark tied his court shoes.

"Hello," Mark said cordially, glancing up.

"Up for a match?"

He looked to the man again, couldn't think of any reason why not. "Sure."

The match was a good one, though Mark found himself reacting a little more aggressively than usual. Perhaps understandably so. Then again, Kevin was giving as good as he got. By the end of it, they were both panting, sweat pouring off of them. But Kevin had won it. It seemed symbolic overall, and it frustrated Mark in a way he was unable to verbalise. He could feel his jaw muscles tensing, but could do nothing to stop it.

Kevin eyed him as Mark patted a towel against his own forehead. "Good match," Kevin said.

"Thanks. It was."

They spoke nothing more until after they were in the locker room. In the middle of Mark stripping off his shirt, Kevin continued.

"So, how did that happen, anyway?"

Mark had absolutely no idea what he meant. He tossed his shirt into his bag. "How did what happen?"

"You, choosing a bitch like Rebecca over Bridget," said Kevin. "Pardon my language, and pardon my asking. Just curious."

 _What nerve_. Mark tucked the towel around his waist, then sat down on the bench in the locker room. He'd wanted to turn and punch the man, but it would have only have made him feel better for a moment or two. "Why in the world would you ask me this?"

"Insight into you," Kevin said, "which in turn gives me insight into her."

Mark thought about that weekend in the country with Bridget, the last weekend of their relationship, spent at Rebecca's place. About how Rebecca had been taking advantage of his desperation to be friends with Bridget's friends. About how Rebecca had tried to dominate his attention while pushing Bridget off onto the other men present. About when Rebecca had brought him into a room just in time to see Bridget and a boy in what looked like a passionate snog. About how they had just been ready to talk about things when Rebecca had called them off to breakfast, derailing the conversation.

About how much of her conscious engineering had gone into driving a wedge between himself and Bridget, and the effort to claim him for herself. He could clearly see now the framework of her scheming, just as Bridget had tried to warn him, but he hadn't listened.

About how, even after he had started going out with Rebecca, he had been given that gift of a night of passion with Bridget, and he had thrown it away because he hadn't wanted to make another mess. Hadn't wanted to look indecisive or shabby.

He _had_ been the world's biggest fool.

"The short version is that I had a choice to make, and I opted for style over substance," said Mark. "Appearances over anything else. My focus was too narrow, too short-sighted, and I was too willing to believe what I wanted to believe. I… was not brave. I made the easy choice, not the right one."

Kevin didn't respond, and when Mark looked back up to him, he seemed to be regarding Mark intensely. He wondered if he'd gone too far and said too much, but ultimately he didn't care. What did he have to lose at this point?

"I see," said Kevin, at last. His tone, his expression, was thoughtful. "Well." He closed his locker, then grabbed his bag. "Again, good match. See you around, I'm sure."

Mark sat there a moment or two more before rising, intent for the shower. It was only once he stood under the stream of water, the heat soothingly sluicing over his head, that he realised that Kevin had not stopped to shower before he'd gone.

He didn't know what to make of it.

And then Mark realised he was overthinking things. Kevin was probably going to go directly to Bridget's and have a bath. When she was going out with Mark, she'd always liked it when he'd come over, sweaty from a run. This thought depressed Mark more than he could express.

The next day, he began running again. He told himself it was because it was too inconvenient to get to the gym after work and he needed to streamline his day and travel less. Deep down, though, he knew it was because he didn't really want to see Kevin again.

 **October**

Mark had hoped that this Kevin would drop out of the picture of his own accord, decide that he missed Scotland and couldn't stay in London a moment longer. Unfortunately, this did not come to pass. Mark decided that he might have to take matters into his own hands. He decided that he would make overtures towards Bridget. He would work on friendship at minimum. He hoped and prayed for more than that. But the didn't know how he could talk to her without Kevin in tow.

He thought his best chance might be to bump into her at a night out with her "urban family". He wasn't sure which club was her current favourite, but he had a good guess, and he knew which nights she liked to meet with them. He also knew that she would probably see right through the ruse; he didn't spend a lot of time in the bars and nightclubs she frequented. He didn't really care, though, as long as he could talk to her.

Initially he went to the wrong nightclub. By the time he arrived to his second choice, where she actually was, she had clearly already had a portion of a bottle of wine. He didn't even approach her until he'd had most of a double Scotch.

When she saw him, she actually did a double take and waved him over. He smiled, broadcasting as much warmth and approachability as he could.

"You, in a nightclub? Is the world ending or something?" she said with a grin, her tongue even looser than usual. She gestured that he join her at her table; he supposed that her friends were off to the loo, or dancing, or something.

"I know, it's not like me," he said, taking a seat at her side. "I just… found myself thinking I should have done this a lot more, before."

"You mean with me," she said.

He paused. "Yes." He drank from his tumbler. "How are you?"

"I'm very well, thanks," she said. "And yes, before you ask, we're still together."

"I know," he said quietly. He thought she hadn't heard, but it was clear she had. He saw the smirk.

Bridget then asked, "How about you?"

He knew what she was asking. Was he seeing anyone? "No."

"I'm sorry," she said. He thought she sounded sincere. Maybe she just felt sorry for him, knew that he wouldn't be pathetically tracking her down if he had truly moved on. "You know, Kevin said he saw you at the gym again a few weeks ago, but that you hadn't been back."

"No," he said. He briefly wondered how much of his conversation with Kevin at the gym had made it back to her ears, but he doubted he'd said a thing. If he had, she might have asked why he'd stopped going, but she didn't, and he wasn't going to volunteer it. He hardly could ask outright. "Let me buy you another drink."

"Thanks, but I don't think so," she said.

"Well, fuck me. Look what came in on the bottom of someone's shoe."

It took Mark a moment to realise the voice was a familiar one, and that the comment was directed towards him. He turned. It was exactly who he thought it was, though why she was so hostile towards him again was a mystery.

"Shazzie," began Bridget, but Mark was already getting to his feet.

"I was just leaving," Mark said.

"Good," Sharon said. "Saves me the trouble."

He looked to Bridget. He could not discern what her state of mind was, but he offered a smile and bowed his head. "Very nice to see you, Bridget," he said. "Always glad to chat with you." She said nothing in return. He glanced to Sharon once more, then turned to leave, not glancing back once.

He wasn't sure talking with her had actually accomplished any of his goals—not that he'd time to really talk to her—but he was glad to see her, all the same.


	3. Chapter 3: Redress

**Substance & Style**

By S. Faith, © 2016  
Words: 25,937  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Redress**

 **Last weekend in October**

Mark didn't know offhand how else he could contrive to meet and talk to her again save turning up to her work or her favourite lunch spots during the week (halfway across London from his own work), but he knew that ran the risk of seeming like he was stalking her. He also knew, though, he would never be able to rekindle even a friendship if he didn't have a chance to talk to her.

Then he recalled, the last time talking to his mother a couple of weeks ago, that she had mentioned a party in the Alconburys' rockery on the last weekend in October, an "Indian Summer"-themed fête. It was this oncoming weekend. He resolved to go. He didn't know why, precisely, but he had a feeling that Bridget would be there alone.

Mark rang up his mother.

"I haven't heard from you in too long, Mark," she said straightaway. "What's been going on?"

"Not much," he said. "Everything. Look, I was hoping to come to visit this weekend."

"But it's the Alconburys' fête on the Saturday… we'll hardly have time to visit."

"I'm sure they wouldn't mind me coming with you," he said.

"True, they wouldn't…" She paused. "I'm surprised you're remotely interested."

"I've been too long in the city," he said.

"Weren't you just at that house party up north?"

"Not just," he said. "Two months ago. Remember, that's when I split up with—" He hated saying her name. "—Rebecca."

"Was it that long ago? Hmm." After another moment's silence, she continued, "You know, I can't guarantee Bridget will be there."

Was he really that obvious? A little too defensively, he said, "What makes you think that's why I'm coming?"

"You just rarely come to these things, that's all," she said. "And besides, I'm not completely daft. You seemed perfectly smitten with Bridget in a way you never were with that other one. Well, no matter. We're always glad to see you."

Admittedly, he was a little lost for words after that assessment from his mother, so he bade her goodbye before putting the phone down. The embarrassment he felt at being so transparent wasn't going to stop him from attending.

The next two days went by in a flash. Before he knew it, he was in his car shooting north towards Grafton Underwood on the Friday night to his parents. They had dinner waiting, and seemed to feel the need to cheer him up, for some reason he could not discern. His mother had his favourite childhood dish ready—Beef Wellington—and a bottle of red wine open and waiting for him.

"Special occasion?" he asked.

"Nothing special," said Elaine. "Just like having you back home, that's all."

He suspected it was not 'nothing special' but rather, something to prepare and comfort him for a disappointment they thought was to come.

They made the trek out to the Alconburys in time for the festivities, which was slated to start mid-afternoon. The Jones family, with or without their daughter, had not yet arrived, but Una said she expected them to attend. He didn't ask whether they were coming alone or with her. He played it as nonchalantly as he could.

Shortly after his second Pimms and a half-dozen tiny cheese pinwheels, he heard Pam Jones' unmistakeable voice. He forced himself not to turn to look in their direction. Geoffrey's voice then covered the distance.

"And Bridget! So nice to see you! And where's your fella? Durr, I don't know!"

He felt his heart race a bit. She had come. And she'd come without Kevin.

"Well, look," said Elaine under her breath. "She came after all."

Mark nodded. "Alone."

"Do you want me to go—"

"No," he said curtly.

"Right," Elaine said. "You'll go to her."

"Don't wait too long," said his father with startling clarity and wisdom. "Don't want to blow the window of opportunity."

"Noted," he said, then got to his feet. He decided to have another Pimms; they were small, and if he was still tipsy by the time they left, he could press his mother into driving. "I'll be right back."

When he arrived to where Una was now fixing the drinks, she gave him a playful grin. He had to this point managed to avoid a conversation with her, but now there was avoiding it. "Mark, nice to see you," she said. "We haven't seen you in too long." She craned her neck almost comically to where his parents still sat. "You're here on your own? I thought you had a lady friend."

"Not for some months, no," he said tersely. He took the proffered drink.

"And here you are, and so are you," said Una. He realised she was saying the last part to Bridget, who was approaching Una and her drinks from behind him. He turned slightly and looked at her.

"Oh, hello, Bridget," he said, as if her presence was unexpected. "Nice to see you."

She looked up at him, as if sceptical that he was truly surprised to see her. "Hi." She looked and sounded a bit put out. He couldn't help thinking her foul mood was a result of whatever had kept Kevin away.

"And here you are, Bridget," said Una, handing a drink in her direction.

"Thanks," said Bridget. "I need this."

She walked away without a word. He decided to follow. She was heading in the same general direction as her parents (and his), so if she snapped at him for it, he at least had a plausible explanation. But she kept going, taking her drink to the edge of the garden, then tried juggling the glass while trying to get into her purse to fetch something out of it.

He strode up to her. "Let me hold that for you."

"I'm fine."

He held out his hand. "Give me your drink," he commanded.

"I said I'm fine," she said, still struggling with the purse. "And besides, you're just going to lecture me about smoking, anyway."

"I'm not," he said. He dearly wanted to, but he wouldn't.

She regarded him for another long few moments, then handed him her drink. He watched as she drew out her pack of Silk Cut, pulled out a cigarette, put it between her lips and then light it. She drew in a deep breath, then exhaled, tilting her head up almost defiantly as she did. She looked at him, then reached out to take her drink back. "Thanks."

"Anytime," he said. "So. You're here alone?"

She took a long sip on her drink, then another long drag of cigarette. She blew out the smoke almost directly at him. "As you see."

"Everything all right?"

"Looking to gloat?"

"Of course not."

She exhaled again, finally seeming to accept he wasn't going to go away. "We had a fight," she said. "And no, not about coming today."

"You don't have to tell me why."

"You're absolutely right I don't," she said. She looked defiant. He'd always loved the fire she had about her. "I'm a little surprised to see you came."

"Decided to at the last minute."

"Because you thought I might be here?"

He thought about lying, but he saw no point in it. "Actually, yes," he said. "I can't hope to regain your friendship if I never see you."

This candour seemed to surprise her. "Friendship?"

"I know I treated you abysmally, Bridget," he said. "I know you've moved on, but I want you to know I deeply regret it, and that I'd really like the chance to make it up to you."

She pursed her lips, then drew another drag off of the cigarette. "It means something to hear you say that, for what it's worth," she said. "I'll have to give it some thought."

"That's fine," he said. "Knowing you're thinking about it is good enough for now."

At this she offered the smallest of smiles. "So you really did dump her for good. Rebecca, I mean. She didn't worm her way back into your graces."

"Yes, I did," he said. "I only wish the scales had fallen from my eyes a lot sooner."

She looked like she might comment on his statement, but she didn't. Instead, she said, "That was really great, by the way. Can't tell you how long I've wanted someone to do that. Tell her off. Bring her down a peg."

"I wish you had," he said quietly.

"What? Pardon?"

He suspected she'd heard him perfectly well; he hadn't meant her to hear, as if he was shifting the blame to her. He wasn't. "Long ago, I mean. If Sharon had brought her down a peg. If _you_ had told her off." He paused; no point in playing the 'what if' game now. "Well. That's neither here nor there. It's in the past now."

She was quiet again, then looked down. "I know what you're saying," she said. "She really was no friend of mine."

"I believe the only person Rebecca cares about is Rebecca," Mark said. "She's not a friend to anyone."

"Yes," she said. She glanced up again. "I _did_ try to warn you."

Rationally, he knew it to be true, and yet hearing it come from her cut him to the core. "I know that now," he said. "It was wrong of me to doubt you. I can't apologise enough in this lifetime, Bridget."

She offered a quick little half-smile. "You've said that," she said.

"I know," he said.

"Don't get all overachieving about it," she said.

It pleased him to hear her joking about it, because it meant she was feeling a bit more charitable about him. "I'll do my best," he said. "Have you had anything to eat yet? There's a spread of food. The cheese pinwheels are…"

"Passable?"

He smiled. "Actually, they're better than that. And I saw what might be chicken satay."

One of her brows lifted up. "I may have to investigate. I'm ravenous after the ride up."

"One of your trains?"

"Of course. One of my vast fleet."

Mark chuckled.

She drove the butt end of her cigarette into the grimy stone post at the edge of the garden. "I've always hated these posts," she muttered. Then they returned to the main party area and went directly off to the table to fill a plate of food each.

Rather than sitting with his parents or hers, they found a bit of garden wall to sit on as a more neutral ground, and ate together, talking of extremely safe topics (how things were going at her work, how things were going for his, and so on). They picked on so much finger food that he started to feel a bit full. He set down his plate and stretched his arms.

"I'd better stop too," Bridget said. "I'm going to make myself sick."

"Was just thinking the same." She set down her plate too. "Suppose I should go back to my parents, see if they can take me to the train station soon."

"Oh, if you need a ride—"

There was a commotion near the garden gate, causing them to look up simultaneously. Bridget was on her feet in an instant. It was, much to his surprise, Kevin. How had he known where to come?

"What are you doing here?" asked Bridget when he got close enough to speak more confidentially to her.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You were right. I should never have made a big fuss about the gym clothes."

"You came all this way to apologise?"

"No," he said. "I came all this way to bring you back to London." After a pause, he said, "I've cleaned up the whole flat in penance."

The flat? Had they moved in together? Mark's head was spinning.

"And _you_ again?"

This was directed to Mark.

"Yes, Kev," Bridget said. "Mark again. We were just talking."

Kevin gave him a long, penetrating look. Mark knew what that look meant. _Stay away_. Was he actually jealous? Kevin had the insight into Mark's feelings, thanks to the conversation at the gym, that Bridget did not have. Mark got to his feet, not looking away, not blinking. "Talking," Kevin said.

"Yes, _talking_ , you big, stupid male," said Bridget testily. "Please tell me you didn't drive all this way to throw a jealous tantrum. Mark was apologising for…" She paused; she noticed, as did he, that the other attendees of the fête were starting to pay attention to the louder-than-normal conversation. "For a lot of things. And I think he's sincere, and I'm accepting the apology. That's all."

Kevin ran a hand down over his face. "Sorry. I'm sorry." He looked at her again.

"Yes," Bridget said. "I'll come back to town with you. But you should have something to eat, and say hi to my mum and dad."

Kevin's stony face suddenly softened, and he smiled. "That seems reasonable."

"Then come here," she said, holding out a hand out to him.

"'Big, stupid male'?" Kevin asked, as he took it.

"I meant it affectionately."

As he pulled her close, Geoffrey Alconbury approached, and, with his usual poor taste, said, obviously pissed, "My little Bridget. No middle ground for you, eh? Either driving all men away, or they're all fighting over you, I don't know."

"Maybe," said Kevin, "I can say hi to your mum and dad, and we can skip the rest."

"Might not be a bad idea, after all," Bridget said.

That was as much as Mark had heard; he walked away back from where he'd been sitting with Bridget, to sit with his parents again. At least, his mother. He didn't know where his father had gotten off to.

Elaine said, "And that was going so well, too."

"Operative word: 'was'," Mark said.

He took some measure of comfort, though, to hear Bridget had accepted his apologies.

By the time they left the fête a couple of hours later, his father was completely hammered, and Mark's mother rarely drove, so he was grateful that he had sobered up in time to drive.

"Mother," he began, then hesitated. Did it make him seem desperate to keep wondering?

"Yes, Mark?"

"I was… curious. About whether or not you heard about… how serious things are with Bridget and that Kevin fellow."

"He seems nice," she said, traitorously. "But no, I haven't heard anything. I'm sure that Pam would tell me, though. If they were living together, or engaged."

"Yes, I suppose Pam wouldn't miss out on any opportunity to rub it in," he said wryly.

"I wasn't going to say that, but…"

She might not have said it in so many words, but it was clear she agreed with him.

 **December**

He should have acted more quickly. He knew that now. The smattering of face-to-face encounters at family gatherings and less-than-chance encounters at the nightclub had served to begin to patch friendly relations, but obviously, it had not moved the process along fast enough.

Not if what his mother had just told him was true.

"Are you sure," Mark said, rather than asked.

"That's what Pam said to me," Elaine said in a quiet tone. "What her daughter told her. So I'm as sure as I possibly can be."

He was glad he was already sitting, because he surely would have needed to.

"And what did she say?" he asked.

"What do you think she said?" his mother countered.

He covered his face with his hand. _Oh, God. Why have you been such a coward?_

"Mark? Are you still there?"

He realised the phone had drifted away from his ear, and he raised it again at the sound of his mother's voice. "Yes," he said. "I am. Sorry."

"Not necessary to apologise to me," she said. "I should apologise to you, dropping a bombshell like this so near to the holidays."

One more reason to despise the season. "I would have learnt sooner or later."

"What are you going to do about it?"

Mirthlessly, he uttered a sound that was very near to a laugh. "Do? What can I do? I've missed my chance."

"Only because you haven't taken it when you've had it," she said sternly. Frankly, it surprised him. "Swallow your bloody pride and tell her how you really feel."

"I can't do that."

"You most certainly can, and should," she said. "You can't go through life thinking, 'If only I'd spoken up when I could have.'"

She had a point. "I hardly see her as it is," he said. "I'd be surprised if she talked to me again after such a confession."

"Mark," she said gently, "at this point, what have you got to lose, really?"

She had a point. He was hardly likely to be invited round for Sunday dinner at this point, and even less so after a future theoretical wedding. "Thanks," he said at last.

The question was, what was he prepared to do next?

He went on, "I should go."

"Plans for the night?"

"I do now," Mark said. "I don't suppose you heard anything from Pam about the living situation."

"I haven't," she said. "You could always call."

"It's not something I can do over the phone."

Long, quiet pause. "I understand," she said. "Do what you need to do. Good luck, Mark."

"Thanks."

He put down the phone and let out a long exhale of breath. He didn't know exactly what he was going to say, but his mother was right. It was time to say it.

Within a few minutes he had donned his overcoat, palmed his car keys, and was pulling out onto the road, navigating slowly but surely to the south, to the bridge, to the side of the Thames on which he knew she resided.

He was able to find a place to park the car around the corner from her building. As he stood in the street, he looked up to the window he knew to be her bedroom. The light was on. The curtain in the window was the same one he'd known when he'd stayed the night.

Mark stepped forward and pressed the buzzer. After a beat, he heard Bridget's voice emanate out of the tinny door-side speaker, "Back already?"

Obviously she thought he was Kevin. "Um, Bridget, it's Mark."

"Oh." Silence for a beat. "What brings you all the way out here?"

He could have lied. He could have said he was just in the neighbourhood. But he couldn't very well come clean starting out with a white lie. "I needed to talk to you."

"Oh," she said again.

"May I come up?"

"Yes, sorry," she said. He heart the door latch release, and he stepped up into the building, closing it carefully behind himself, then making the journey up to her flat door for the first time in far too long. He half-expected her to be waiting at the open door as she used to do sometimes, but she wasn't. He rapped on the door, and shortly, she answered it.

She was dressed for relaxing around the house—trackie bottoms, a tee, hair drawn back into a ponytail—and greeted him pleasantly if hesitantly with a tight smile. "Hi," she said. "Come in." She stepped back, allowing him passage into the flat.

Mark glanced around, taking in the place, noting that there was no evidence that there was a man living there.

"So you wanted to talk?" she prompted from beside him.

He turned to her. "Yes. And you don't need to say a thing. If you could just listen all the way through…"

She looked confused. "All right."

If he could address packed courtrooms, he could do this. _Forget the personal stakes, Darcy_ , he thought. He cleared his throat. _Here goes nothing._

"I've already told you how sorry I am for… Rebecca."

She nodded. "And how you could never apologise enough in this lifetime."

Was it a good sign that she'd remembered his exact words? He had no idea. "All right." He put his hands into his jacket pockets, then took them out again, cursing himself for his fidgeting. He met her gaze and held it unwaveringly. "Look. I've heard your news, and I have to tell you what's on my mind." Her brows lifted ever so slightly. It was now or never. "I still have very strong feelings for you, Bridget." _Just say it_ , he told himself. "I still love you. I've never stopped. I don't expect you to express any sort of… reciprocation. I don't expect you to drop everything and come back to me. But I couldn't just… continue to be an utter coward and not tell you."

Her features didn't change at all. Not a flicker of anything to suggest she felt the same. She was quiet. He couldn't tell if it was a good thing or not.

"Ah," she said at last, breaking their connected gaze, glancing down, as if the photo sitting on the end table (of Tom and some man Mark didn't recognise) was the most interesting thing in the world. "The thing is," she began, "I don't have—" She stopped short as noise from the door caught her attention, and Mark's. "Bugger," she muttered quite without thinking. "I forgot he took my keys."

"I'm back," Kevin called out as he turned the knob and opened the door. "Hope you managed to find the—" Just then, Kevin noticed Mark was there. "—corkscrew." He came nearer bearing carrier bags and accompanied by the distinctive scent of Indian food, which he then set down. "What the hell's this all about?"

"He just dropped in unexpectedly," Bridget said.

"I needed to talk to her," Mark said.

"You couldn't use the bloody _phone_?" Kevin asked Mark; he wasn't shouting, but it was clear he was angry. Then he turned to Bridget. "Is _this_ why you didn't say yes to me?"

"For Christ's sake, Kevin, not now."

As she spoke, Kevin's meaning filtered through: she wasn't engaged to him, after all.

Kevin continued heatedly: "Sorry, am I interrupting something important here between the two of you?"

"Can the sarcasm, all right? I already _told_ you—"

"You _are_ still in—!"

Kevin had interrupted her, but then cut his own words short. Mark wondered what it was Kevin was about to say that he didn't want Mark to hear. From the fire in the man's eyes, Mark had his own idea. Frankly, Kevin's words and unspoken accusation sparked a hope in Mark he thought had long died.

"I think you should leave," said Kevin, his dark gaze on Mark.

"I think you _both_ should leave," said Bridget quietly.

Kevin's attention shot to her, as did Mark's. Mark had expected her to kick him out, but he never expected her to tell to Kevin to leave, too.

"Bridget," said Kevin. "What about dinner?"

"Goodbye," Mark said to her, held her gaze again for a moment, then turned for the door. He didn't want to be present for the conversation they were assuredly going to have.

After exiting the building, Mark crossed the street heading back for his vehicle. As he got to the kerb, though, his pace slowed. He suddenly felt compelled to wait and watch Kevin leave too. He ducked into the doorway of a shop that was closed for the night, waited, and watched.

When ten minutes had passed by with no activity, it was clear that Kevin wasn't going to be leaving. Mark hadn't actually expected Bridget to throw wide her arms and run after him, but he was still irrationally disappointed when it didn't happen.

He thrust his hands into his pockets and continued walking on back to his vehicle. At least he had a clear conscience, had given Bridget the apology she had deserved for months, and bared to her the true feelings that had remained in his heart.

What she did with the information was up to her.

 **Christmas / New Year (and just after)**

The silence after his confession was deafening. Mark wanted to give her the space she deserved, and didn't want to intrude, but not knowing what happened after he'd left her flat was driving him a little crazy. He hoped he would hear something from his mother (via Pam), but surprisingly there was nothing from those quarters. Surely his mother would have crowed had she had the merest whiff of the end of the relationship with Kevin.

As he usually did, he went to spend the Christmas holiday with his parents. He thought maybe he'd hear more, but as the days passed, as Christmas and Boxing Day came and went, he heard not a peep.

He thought that she might show up at the Alconburys' yearly Turkey Curry Buffet, but she didn't. He wasn't entirely surprised. It was always hard for Bridget to resist her mother's coercion to attend, but attending meant she'd probably see Mark, and he doubted she wanted to, no matter how things were going with Kevin.

It was just a few days after his return to London that he finally got some information, at a time and a place (and by a person) he never expected.

Mark was so deep into a case review that he never heard any smaller sounds that preceded the bang on his office door at Inns of Court. The door then swung open so hard that it rattled the framed certificates on his wall, the doors of his bookcases. "There you are."

It was Kevin, and he was clearly, tangibly angry. As if the manner of his entrance hadn't given that away. He was glad that his PA had taken the afternoon off.

"Well, yes," Mark said calmly, setting down his papers. "It _is_ my office. What can I do for you?"

"You can leave my girlfriend the fuck alone," he said. "I know you've been seeing her."

"I've… what? I haven't seen her for weeks," Mark said, noting that he had not said 'fiancée'.

"That's a load of shit," he said. "You've been seeing her when I'm working. When she's alone."

"I have not," Mark said. "I don't know what gives you the idea—"

Mark stopped as Kevin slammed his fist down onto Mark's desk. "You're lying. You _have_ been seeing her."

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Mark said, rising to his feet, "or I'm going to call security."

"Go ahead," Kevin said. Suddenly, he lunged forward and threw a punch, but Mark jerked and stumbled back in time to avoid it, saved by the presence of the large desk.

"And now I could press charges for attempted assault," he said, "never mind the damage you could do to your hand; you're a surgeon, you imbecile. Leave now and I can be persuaded against pursuing charges."

Kevin was still furious, but he stepped back, seemingly coming to his senses. "Stay away from her, or I won't let a desk stop me next time."

Mark was not afraid of Kevin, not for himself, but he was quickly becoming afraid for Bridget. "Have you hit her?" Mark asked quietly.

"What? _No_!" he said in outrage. "I'd _never_."

"A common refrain from abusers," Mark said calmly. "If I hear that you have…"

"I fucking haven't. Now am I going, or not?"

"Get the hell out of here."

With clenched teeth, Kevin gave one last glaring look, then turned and left, not closing the door behind himself. Mark walked over and closed it, taking in a deep breath.

He'd have to call Bridget, despite it possibly feeding into Kevin's unfounded paranoia that Bridget was being unfaithful. He had to tell her what had just happened. She needed to know.

Her mobile number rang and rang, until she picked up at last.

"I'm at work," she said with uncharacteristic gruffness. "What do you want?"

The tone surprised him. "Bridget?"

"Oh, sorry," she said, exhaling roughly. "Was just speaking to… well, he was being unreasonable, and I _am_ working."

"Kevin?"

"Yes," she said.

"He's why I'm calling," he said, then explained the confrontation that had just occurred.

" _Jesus_ ," Bridget said. "I'm sorry."

"Has he ever hurt you?"

"No!" she said quickly, then said again, "No."

"Would you tell me if he had?"

She was quiet. "Yes, I would," she said. "He was angry. I could tell he was angry. He's really just… he's a gentle, caring man, Mark, I promise. I don't know exactly what's going on with him but it's not like him at all."

"He's jealous," said Mark without hesitation.

"Obviously, and I don't know why," she said, then sighed.

"He thinks we've been sneaking around together when he's working."

He heard her chuckle under her breath in disbelief. "After everything I've been doing… Jesus. Well, I'll see him later," she said. "I'll talk to him. Tell him he's being ridiculous."

"Just be careful," Mark said.

"It'll be fine, don't worry."

But he would worry. He knew she could take care of herself under most circumstances, but against the man he'd seen today, the one in a jealous rage, he couldn't help but worry.

…

When his mobile rang during dinner, when he saw that it was Bridget, he answered immediately.

"Are you all right?" he said, before she could say anything.

"What? I'm fine," she said. "But I did kick him out." Then she burst in to tears. "He punched a hole in the wall, Mark."

He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"He looked horrified that he'd done it, and he apologised over and over again, but… what's done is done. I won't have it. It's over."

"I'm glad you're not hurt," he said, thinking, _At least not physically_. "Do you need company or a friend tonight?" As he said it, he cringed. It sounded like he was trying to make a move on her.

"Shaz is out of town," she said. "Jude's… who knows, probably shagging her latest boyfriend. I'm sure that's what Tom's up to." After a pause, she asked, "Would you mind coming over? I mean, I don't want you getting the wrong idea…"

"I know. I don't," he said. "And yes, I will. What can I bring to you?"

"Wine," she said, without hesitation. "And chocolate."

He smiled. He knew he would bring both, even though he wasn't sure wine plus emotional vulnerability was such a great combination right now. But being her friend when she needed it would serve a penance of sorts for the terrible way he had treated her.

After making the stop to get the things she had required, Mark arrived to her place about an hour later. She buzzed him in then met him at the open door of her flat with a smile that struggled to stay in place. As soon as he was in the flat, as soon as he'd set down the wine and the chocolate, he turned and offered a hug, his eyes connecting with the offending hole in the plaster.

That's when she started to really cry. Mark decided not to say anything, just held her, traced a short arc on her back with his hand, let her get it out. "I feel so… duped, you know?" she said.

Mark did know. Rebecca.

"He's a good man," Bridget went on. "He just couldn't be convinced he was wrong about you. Well, you and me." She went quiet for a bit. "I don't think he would have actually hit me. And yes, I know what that sounds like, like I'm making excuses for him." Mark still said nothing, because that's exactly what it sounded like… and there was no way she could have predicted anything about what could have happened next. "I'm just… shocked. That kind of jealousy. That kind of unpredictable violence. That… lack of trust. That he wasn't exactly the man I thought he was." She drew back. Her eyes were red and teary. "I feel like I can't even trust my own judgement anymore."

"You exercised perfectly good judgement once you had all of the facts," he said. "I know this is difficult. I'm sorry." He stepped back and pointed to the carrier bag he had brought. "As requested."

She smiled a little. "Thanks." She looked down, then took a step back. "Well, come in. I got a pizza delivery, if you want some."

"Of course you did," he said with a smile. "Yes, I'll have some. Thanks."

He guided her away from what was clearly the scene of their fight and over to the kitchen, taking the carrier bag with the wine in it with him. As she got him a plate and pizza, he reached into the bag, first pulling out the wine bottle, then the corkscrew he'd also picked up. He'd recalled the last time he'd been there, the question about the corkscrew, and didn't want to have to count on the fact that she had found hers.

"Oh," she said, turning to see him uncorking the wine. "Is that mine?"

"It is now."

He expected that she recalled the lost corkscrew from that night, too. "Thanks," she said sheepishly.

"No worries," he said. "Hand me some glasses?"

"Mm-hmm," she said, turning to her cupboard. "Your pizza," she said, gesturing towards the plate of food.

"Thanks."

She got herself a couple of slices, picked up a glass of wine. He followed her, then took a seat on the chair near to the couch. She picked up her pizza just as he did, and met his eye as they both went to take a bite of their respective slices. For some reason, this made her smile, then laugh.

"Something funny?" he asked, once he'd swallowed his bite.

"Just feels a bit like going back in time, that's all."

"A bit," he said.

Sip by sip of wine, bite by bite of pizza, they ate their dinner mostly in silence.

"I'm glad you came," she said, as she set her plate down, then tipped up her wineglass to empty it.

"My pleasure," he said, setting his own plate and glass down. "Shall I get the wine?"

"Yes, please," she said. He rose, went to the kitchen, and brought back the bottle to pour her more. "Aren't you having any more?"

"I shouldn't."

"Ah, have some more," she said. "You don't have to work tomorrow, do you?"

"Sadly, I do," he said. "Or at least I'm supposed to."

"Have some more," she said again, more insistently. "I don't want to drink on my own."

She was hardly on her own, but he knew what she meant. He reached over then tipped the bottle up one more time to pour himself another glass. "I can always take a taxi home, I guess."

"That's the spirit."

"Shall I… put on the telly?" she asked perkily. "Surely something is on that we can laugh at, right?"

She reached over for the remote, switched on the telly, and landed on an episode of _Frasier_.

"This is a safe choice, do you think?" she said.

He had only ever seen a few episodes, and they had seemed tame enough. "Sure."

So within a few minutes they were laughing and polishing off the bottle of wine. Mark wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved that he had only brought one.

"Chocolate!" Bridget said, sitting upright. "You brought chocolate!"

"I did," he said, reaching over for the second carrier bag. She held out her hand and he handed her a bag of candy, Lindt Lindor dark chocolate truffles.

She took the bag then peeked inside. Her eyes went wide. "That's not messing about, is it? Ooh."

"Try not to eat it in one sitting," Mark teased.

"Pfft," she said. "I don't think there's a bag of these that has ever lasted more than one day." She unwrapped one and popped it into her mouth. "Mmmm," she murmured as she chewed, then swallowed. "That hit the spot. Want one?"

"I'll pass," he said.

After _Frasier_ , another pair of situation comedies came on (forgettable), and then at last came _Friends_ , which he also had seen an episode or two previously. In that timeframe, Bridget did manage to eat the entire bag. He was astonished, to be honest.

"How is it that you don't feel utterly sick to your stomach?"

She reclined in her chair, looking utterly pleased with herself. "There's always room for chocolate." As she regarded him, she let out a long breath, her smile slowly fading. "You know, I never got to say… that night Kevin found you here. I never got to tell you, well, I guess, _thank you_ , first of all."

He didn't quite know how to answer her. Of all of the things she could bring up now, his confession—that he still loved her—was the last thing he would have expected. "You're welcome, I guess," he said.

"I could tell it was a difficult thing to admit," she said. "A difficult thing for you to say. I know it took a lot for you to admit something so… personal. And you never got a response from me, which is totally not fair."

"I told you I didn't require that you say a thing."

"I know, I know," she said. "But I feel far freer to say what I wanted to then." She pulled her lower lip between her teeth for a moment, as if she were thinking something over. She started to fuss with the lower hem of her sweatshirt. "You should know that uncertainty over my lingering feelings for you did cause some problems between me and Kevin." She glanced up to him again. "Yes, even though you were a total arse to me, even though I thought you were forever lost to that cow. But I was trying hard to make things work with him. And I did love him." As she said this last bit, her face screwed up as another round of tears hit her. "But I loved you too."

She put her hand over her face in that futile attempt that everyone uses to try to stop from crying in front of someone. If he'd had a pocket square on him, he'd have given it to her, but the next best thing would have to do. He rose and went for a box of tissues that he'd seen on her kitchen counter, deep in thought as he did.

'I did love him.' He couldn't deny that his heart had sunk to the floor upon hearing her say these words. But of course she'd loved Kevin. It was in her character to feel things so deeply. When she went into a relationship, she went all in.

More important to him, though, was that she had admitted to still having feelings for him. Not that it was the time or the place to pursue it. Right now, it was enough for him just to know.

"Thanks," she said, raising her gaze to meet his own as he handed her the box, then grasping tissues to blow her nose, dry her eyes. "God, I'm a mess."

"It's all right," he said. "After all, you've just been dealt a big blow. I think you're allowed a good cry."

She smiled a little, lowering her tissue. "You've probably seen me worse anyway."

If he had, he couldn't think of when, but he didn't admit to it.

She grabbed another tissue and blew her nose again, before being clearly overtaken by a yawn. She tried to hide it but failed miserably. He glanced to his watch, and was thoroughly surprised to see that it was easing on to midnight. "I'd better go," he said abruptly, getting to his feet. "It's late and I have to work in the morning."

She looked up at him with those red-rimmed, shining blue eyes. "If you must, you must," she said. As much as he didn't want to go, he knew he had no other choice.

"Don't get up," he said, holding his hand out to halt her. "I'll see myself out."

He turned, going over to slip into his coat; he felt her hand on his elbow urging him to turn towards her. "Don't be silly," she said. "I need to thank you for tonight."

She then held her arms up to hug him, and of course, he welcomed it, enfolding her and holding her close to him. Her embrace was tight; she pressed her cheek against his chest, and being the perfect height for him to do so, he rested his chin lightly on the top of her head. They stayed in this close, warm, comfortable embrace for many moments before he drew back just enough to place a kiss on the top of her head.

"I'll see you soon," he said quietly. "Good night, Bridget."

With that, he stepped back, then let himself out of the flat door. With every step he exhaled a little bit more in relief. Originally he had thought the hard part was over, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised the hardest part would be trying to figure out when she'd be ready to maybe, possibly, give it another go.

…

It wouldn't be pressuring her, he reasoned, if he rang up after a couple of days just to see how she was doing. After all, he had said he'd see her soon. If he asked, if she agreed to meet him for coffee, it'd be light, casual, friendly.

He told himself that he couldn't exactly lie low and wait for her to call him. He knew the way she thought. He knew that she would never have called him, even if it were crucial for her to do so. That was not the way of the Dating War Command; even if they were no longer dating, he was still her ex, and there were rules to be followed.

He smiled to himself as he dialled her number late that workday. It didn't take long for her to answer. "Hi, Mark," she said in greeting.

"Hello," he said, warmed by the thought that his number was still in her contacts. "Just ringing you to see how things were going for you."

"Better, I think," she said. Then she chuckled a little. "You know what it's like those first days after—" She stopped, as if remembering exactly with whom she was speaking. "Well. Things are a bit too quiet."

 _And lonely_ , he added in thought only. He had not exactly been in mourning after he had broken up with Rebecca, but after he'd split with Bridget… yes, he did know what it was like. "I understand," he said quietly. Then he cleared his throat. "I was wondering if you might like to meet for a coffee, or something."

She didn't say anything for more seconds than he was comfortable with. "Oh," she said at last. "Um, sure. I'd like that. Thanks."

"Something the matter?"

"No, nothing's the matter," she said, rather unconvincingly. Then she made another sound that reminded him of a light laugh. "It feels a bit like I'm proving Kevin's suspicions right."

"What does that mean?"

"He leaves, you turn up and we spend the evening together," she said. "Then you ask me for coffee on a Friday night."

Almost like a date. He realised this too late. "It'd just be coffee," he said, then regretted saying it. As if it were trivial. It wasn't trivial at all. "You know what I mean by that."

"I know."

"And you didn't do anything to provoke his paranoia, Bridget," he said. "I'm not going to insist, but I do hope you'll come."

She went very quiet again. "Can we make it dinner?" Now he was confused. But then she added, "I'm just really famished, all of a sudden."

He felt his relief wash over him. "Sure," he said. "I can pick you up from work, if you like."

"Okay," she said.

"Have something in mind," he said. "All right?"

"Okay," she said again. "See you then."

He put down the phone, glancing to his watch. If he left within five minutes, he probably wouldn't have too much trouble with traffic. Well, no more trouble than usual.

As he made the trek there, he made a wager with himself that she was going to want something Indian or Chinese; they had frequented both while they had dated. He soon learned, though, that he was in for a surprise.

"I don't know why," she said, buckling herself into the car, "but I'm really in the mood for something from a place a few blocks down from my flat. The best fish and chips south of the Thames, I promise you."

"I believe you," he said, indicating, then pulling away from the kerb. "New to the neighbourhood? I don't recall you mentioning it before."

"It… wasn't the sort of place we'd ever go to when you and I were going out," she said sheepishly. He was about to ask what that was supposed to mean, but she added, "I mean, it's a _chippy_."

Did she really think him that much of a snob? "I'm not sure why you'd think I'd snub a good chippy."

She covered her mouth with a hand; at first he thought she was crying, but then he realised she was laughing. "Sorry," she said, then began laughing breathlessly.

"It's not _that_ funny," he said, bristling a bit.

"It is funny, but, _but_ ," she began, then lost it in laughter again. "The look on your _face_ …"

At this, he smiled. He supposed he'd had this coming to him, what with his preference for Pont de la Tour. "Fine, fine, I take your point," he said. "We're almost to your flat. Shall I park and we can walk to this top chippy?"

The giggles were subsiding. "Yes," she said, "that's good. And I'm sorry. Once I started laughing I couldn't help myself. I guess I needed a bit of hysterical laughter, or something." She then reached over and patted his hand, which rested upon the gear shift, then drew her hand away.

"All is forgiven then," he said, deftly swooping in to a space a few doors from her building, probably lately vacated by someone working in a nearby office, not yet claimed by someone out for a Friday night pub crawl. All was forgiven. It was worth a dent to his pride to hear her laugh so unrestrainedly.

"Oh, good."

The walk to the chippy wasn't more than five minutes, and within another five they had their newspaper cones filled with freshly fried fish and thick cut chips, hot enough to send plumes of steam up into the air. Mark had to agree that it _was_ exceptionally good. He told her so, and she looked justifiably smug. It was also keeping his hands warm, to boot.

He noticed, though, that Bridget seemed chilled. "We should…" He trailed off. He felt a bit strange suggesting that they go back to her place, so instead said, "You look cold."

She nodded. "Good idea," she said. "It is, after all, January. Be a bit weird if it weren't cold."

They turned together and began the walk back to her flat, still picking at their respective meals. He was amused that she had known what he was going to say before he said it.

Once inside, the warmth of the flat seemed almost too much. He held her cone while she slipped out of her coat and shoes, then she did the same for him. "I don't even want to stop for wine, this is so good," she said, picking another chip up and eating it, then dropping down onto her sofa.

He laughed, then took the chair he'd had before. "Well. That _is_ saying something."

She sat back. "So how'd your week go, anyway?" she asked.

"Pardon?"

"Well, you asked me before how I was doing, and I never really got the chance to ask the same of you." She bit into a piece of fish. "Working on some new, big case? Fate of the world hanging in the balance?"

He glanced down, chuckling a little. "Not quite that big," he said. "Asylum case from Chechnya." He then began to give her some of the details that he could, picking at the remainder of his dinner as he did; ordinarily he wouldn't have been able to stomach food while thinking of his cases, but speaking to her about it, he didn't feel that way at all.

She tended to have that effect on him.

"That sounds really awful," she said sombrely. "Good thing they've got someone like you to take on the system."

He felt a little self-conscious, almost embarrassed, at hearing this professional praise from her. "Thanks."

"No need to be so modest, Mark," she said. "Especially about your work." She laughed a little, deep in her throat. "My mum told me once you charge hundreds of pounds of hour, in a way that made me think you were probably just an insufferable nerd." He smiled, then laughed a little. "But I realise now it was her way of saying she thinks you're at the top of your field. And you are. Well, that, and a nice nerd."

He guessed she'd thought her mum had been exaggerating. "I appreciate that, Bridget."

She reached and placed her hand on his forearm, smiling affectionately. "I'm glad we did this," she said. "And I'm glad you liked the chippy, after all."

"Sometimes a leopard _can_ change its spots," he joked, smiling too.

Something indefinable flicked over her face; her blue eyes went a little soft, and a smile played on her lips. "Yeah, I guess they can."

He was drawn to her. Like that, just like a magnetic pull, he wanted to reach over, take her into his arms, crush her with a kiss. It took every ounce of his considerable restraint to look away, to set his now-empty fish and chip wrapper on the table. "I should go," he said. "It's been a long day."

He half-expected for her to insist that he stay just a little longer, but she only said, "Yes, I guess it has been," she said.

He stood, glancing back to her. "I'll just see myself out," he said.

She didn't protest, but instead said, "We'll talk again soon, I hope?"

"Yes," he said. "Very soon." He regarded her for another long few moments, as if he might actually not see her again. "Good night."

"Night, Mark."

The brisk air outside shocked him to his senses. He was glad he'd gotten away before he'd done something stupid, just as they were rebuilding their friendship again. He pressed his fingers and thumb into the corners of his eyes, exhaling slowly.

…

"So what's happening with Bridget?"

Sunday morning, his mother ringing him, earlier even than usual for her.

"What, nothing's happening."

"I heard from Pam that she and her fellow had split."

"Oh," Mark said over his coffee. "Yes, they have."

"What happened?" she asked, her tone a little dark.

"It's nothing to do with me," Mark said. "Well, it was. But not because I did anything." He then explained the visit from Kevin just after the new year, the follow-up visit to Bridget, and the ensuing split. "I've been nothing but a friend to her."

"Did you… did you tell her?"

"Yes," he said. "But it was before I learnt she hadn't actually accepted the marriage proposal."

"She… _what_?"

"I guess I'd better explain a little more," he said with a sigh, then proceeded to do just that, backing up to the rumoured engagement, his own confession, and Kevin interrupting and misinterpreting his presence.

"Oh, goodness, Mark… what a mess."

"It's actually anything but," he said. It felt good to talk about it, to verbalise all of the thoughts he'd had. "She admitted to me that part of the problem with Kevin was that… she still had some feelings for me."

"So does that mean…?" she asked, leaving the end of the question unspoken.

"As I said, nothing but a friend."

"I do hope _that_ is only temporary," his mother said.

"So do I," he said.


	4. Chapter 4: Reconciliation

**Substance & Style**

By S. Faith, © 2016  
Words: 25,937  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

All right, my friends, this is the part that earns the rating. Ahem.

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Reconciliation**

 **Early February**

If not for the fact that he had run himself out of coffee.

It was something he'd think about a lot for the foreseeable future. If he hadn't needed to get a coffee at the local Coins, he might not have seen Bridget again for another two weeks.

He realised he'd been staring into space when her gaze met his, and he looked quickly away before looking back and offering a smile. She looked confused, but smiled a little in return, and then waved him over.

He had rung and left a couple of messages shortly after their meal together at the chippy, but she hadn't rung back. He'd taken the hint.

"What brings you here?"

"Didn't have any more coffee at home," he said. Then he held up his cup. "Figured I'd make do here."

"Ah," she said. "Just, um, on my way to work."

Had he subconsciously picked this particular Coins knowing that it was the one that would be the one he was most likely to bump into her? "Ah," he said too, a bit stupidly.

Then awkward silence as she waited for her cappuccino.

"Look, Mark," she said, her features suddenly looking pained, "I'm sorry about not returning your phone calls."

"It's all right."

"It's not," she said. "But I was feeling… well, that's just it. I was feeling too much. It was all a bit too much. And that's not fair to you or to me."

He understood, and he nodded. "Maybe we could have lunch out on the weekend," he said suddenly. He didn't want to stop trying.

She smiled again, just a little one, but it was sincere. "I think I'd like that."

"Bridget! Cappuccino!"

They were startled by the sound of the barista announcing that her drink was finished. "Thank you," she said, turning to take it. She then turned back to him. "I think it's your turn to pick a place, so let me know where to go."

"How about I just plan to pick you up at noon on Saturday?"

"Or that. You can do that."

She then surprised him by reaching up and pecking a kiss on his cheek.

"Until then," she said, then left with her coffee.

The weekend was still three days away, and these were the longest three days of his life. He felt enormous pressure to find something along the lines of the place she'd suggested the other night, and in the end, settled on a pub that he and his colleagues sometimes went to. It was a nice place, had good food and a nice atmosphere, but wasn't the calibre of place he would normally have thought for taking a date.

He guessed perhaps he had been a bit too snobby.

He took extra time on Saturday morning in his shower and especially his shave, staring a little too long, convinced that his sideburns were not even. He dressed casually—well, casually for him, with khaki trousers and a cotton button-down shirt—and made sure to leave with plenty of time to get there, even allowing that she was likely not to be ready.

But he was about to be surprised. In front of her building, standing there waiting as he approached in his car, was Bridget. She smiled and waved as soon as she saw him. He stopped the car at the kerb, and before he had a chance to get out and get the door for her, she was in the passenger seat beside him.

"Hi," she said brightly.

"You're ready."

"As you see," she said. "So where are we going?"

"Ah, allow me at least the element of surprise," he said, as he engaged the gear and pulled away again.

"Circus-themed restaurant?" she guessed.

He laughed. "No."

"Well, there's my one guess."

"It's a good place, but don't get your hopes too high," he said. "Don't want you to be disappointed."

"I doubt I can be disappointed, Mark," she said.

He tried not to interpret it as meaning anything but what it was, but he felt very optimistic about the date. About the two of them in general. Like this might have been the start of their second go.

He found somewhere to park the car that wasn't too far from the pub, then led her there. As the sign came into view she saw it. "Oh, is this it?" she asked. She was smiling, though. They entered and she looked around appreciatively. "Nice," she said.

"Let's get a table," he said, gesturing towards the only free table, which was by the window. He would have preferred not to feel like he was in a fishbowl, but he would take what he could get. "Drink?"

"Yes," she said. "Bloody Mary, I think. Good, fortifying lunch-type drink."

He smiled a little. "Think of what you want to order," he said, gesturing at the were little menus on the table. "Be right back."

He had a chance to look over the list as he waited for the barman to take the drink order. When he returned, he placed her drink on the table before her; she was deep in thought, looking at the list. "The chicken pasty is sounding very appealing," she said, then turned her eyes to him as he took his seat. "All of that fluffy pastry. Mmm." She set down the list. "What about you?"

"That does sound pretty good," he said. "But steak and kidney for me, I think."

"Side of chips?"

"Obviously."

He placed their order, then came to the table again, taking a long draw off of his bitter. He looked to her again to find she was looking at him quite unabashedly.

"Something the matter?" he asked.

"Oh, no, nothing's wrong," she said. "Just glad I bumped into you at Coins the other day. Glad we could do this." She brought her shoulders up as if she were stretching a little in her seat. "Not sure how to explain it," she said. "But this feels… _right_. Does that sound weird?"

"Not at all weird."

She stirred the celery stick then sipped her drink. When she set it down again, she said, looking at the drink, "You know, I'm not sure I ever actually said that I forgive you. For the whole thing with Rebecca, I mean." She lifted her gaze to him. "Well, if I didn't, I do." Then she reached across the table with her palm up, inviting him to take her hand, and he did. She squeezed his hand affectionately, then let it go and withdrew her own. Lingering hand-holding, he supposed, could come in time.

The food was as good as he remembered, and she seemed very much to like her pasty. They had a second round of drinks—his a tall glass of lemon water—as they worked their way through their meals, each picking at the basket of chips. She asked how his difficult Chechnya case was going, and he had to tell her that it wasn't looking hopeful, but he was going to keep fighting like hell. He asked how things were at work for her, and she said she was hoping for a pay rise as she was one of the more senior staff now.

"Which is hard to believe," she said. "I mean, that I've managed to stick around this long. I never expected this to be my, you know, _career_."

"Do you enjoy what you do?"

"Not sure I'd say I enjoy it," she said. "I mean, I hate my boss, but I don't mind the actual work when it's a sane topic, and although my co-workers are almost literally infants, they're not bad as people go." She reached for and took the last of the chips, making it officially the end of the meal. He found himself loath to end it. "Oh. Did you want this?"

"It's all yours," he said.

"Thanks," she said, popping it into her mouth. Then she sat back against her seat. "Well, Mark, you've done well here. That was really good. Thank you."

"My pleasure," he said.

By unspoken agreement they decided to leave; he pushed back and rose to head for the bar to pay the tab while she slipped into her coat.

As they walked back to his car, he pushed his hands into his pockets. "What have you got planned for the afternoon?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Not much; laundry, probably," she said. "Exciting, I know. You?"

"Was going to do some paperwork to stay ahead of it, but…" he trailed off, shrugging a little. "I should probably try not to bring work home so much."

"I think that's a very wise decision," she said. They reached the car; actually, he reached it first, and leaned to open the passenger door for her. "Thanks."

"The pleasure is always mine," he said; his voice had suddenly gone a bit raspy, with the way she was looking up into his eyes. She stood within the V of the open door, his hand still on the top of the door, reached up to place a hand on his cheek, lifted herself up and placed a quick kiss on his lips before sinking down into the passenger seat. Stunned for a moment, he then closed the door, then went around to take the driver's seat, engaging the engine and pulling away from the kerb. They drove in silence, though a comfortable one, for the most part. He didn't quite know what to make of what she had just done. Surely it was too soon after the surprising, devastating breakup with Kevin.

"Well," she said; her voice brought him out of his thoughts. "Thanks again for lunch and for the lift home."

Quite on autopilot he had landed in front of her building. She reached over and patted his shoulder, then opened the door and let herself out. She bounded over to her stoop, waving back to him as she entered her building, then disappeared from sight.

He felt confused and a bit discombobulated, not to mention frustrated. He had allowed himself to hope that she might ask him up. If she were ready to take him back, he was ready, too.

…

He had seen the signs without seeing them, he realised. And 'the signs' were the hearts, the boxes of chocolate, the displays of roses that indicated that a major (albeit commercialised) holiday was nearly upon them. He checked his watch. Actually, just two days away, conveniently landing on a Friday this year.

Mark had spoken to Bridget by phone a few times, and they'd had pleasant chats on safe, broad topics (even making him chuckle as she tried to explain how she felt on topics about which she clearly thought he was too conservative to agree with her). But he hadn't seen her again; either she was too busy to go out, or he was.

He wanted now to ask her out for Valentine's. And he wanted to do it right.

He rang her up as soon as he was able, and she answered almost immediately.

"Hey, how are you?" she asked. It had been a couple of days since they had last spoken.

"I'm well, thanks. You?"

"Okay," she said, then sighed. "In a bit of a slump, actually. And then… well. _You know_."

He did; he knew exactly how much weight she placed on the importance of Valentine's Day. But he pretended not to. "I _don't_ know," he said.

"Mark," she said tersely.

"Shall I take you for dinner, then, on Friday night, and you can tell me all about it?"

She said nothing. It was always pleasurable to leave her speechless. Finally, she sputtered, "Are you taking the piss?"

"I'd never do that," he said.

"Well," said Bridget. "I happen to be free on Friday, so… yes. I'd like that."

"Terrific," he said. "I'll be by to pick you up at… seven?"

"Seven's good," she said. "See you then."

Once again he anticipated the days passing with some impatience, spending more time than was healthy researching into where he might take her that would fit the spirit of the holiday. And that wasn't totally booked up already, given the short notice.

That was when he found it. Perfect, something he thought she would enjoy, and not at all anything she would have been expecting from him, which was icing on the cake. He liked surprising her.

 **Valentine's Day**

The closer seven p.m. approached, the more anxious Mark became. He was a perfectionist, often to his detriment, and tonight was no different. He had done his best, but would she like it?

 _Stop second-guessing yourself_ , he scolded in his thoughts. _The night will be as good as you make it_.

He rang the buzzer for her flat slightly before the appointed time, but she answered right away. "Hello, Bridget," he said.

"I'll be right down."

He couldn't believe it. Again she was ready on time. He took it as a positive sign. A few minutes later, the door swung open, and she stepped out cloaked in her winter coat. Her hair was loosely curled on her shoulders, and she was carefully made up with liner and shadow, enough to accentuate her eyes and make that blue even starker. She had also dug up a red lipstick that looked absolutely stunning on her; he forced himself to glance away, and when he did, he caught a glimpse of red near the bottom hem of the coat. He was suddenly very eager to see what she was wearing. If the scarlet high-heeled shoes were any indication…

"Shall we be off, then?" she asked.

"Let's," he said, offering her an elbow. "Your carriage awaits."

She laughed, leaning heavily on him as they walked; it was cold and dry but she still had to navigate around the occasional patch of ice. He opened the car door for her.

"Thanks." Once they were on their way, she asked, "Would you tell me where we were going if I asked?"

"Nope," he said, then looked over to her and smiled. She smiled back.

"Had a feeling you might say that," she said, then placed her hand on his, where it rested on the gear shift. She left it there, soft and warm against his own.

The drive to their destination was just a hop across the Thames away; within minutes he was pulling up to the sign for the car park. He exited the car, handed his keys over to a young man in smart attire, then went around to open her door.

"Valet parking?" she said, her brows lifting. "My, we are splashing out tonight."

He said nothing, just held his hand as an offer of help out of the car.

Their destination was not showy on the outside, but she instantly seemed to recognise the name over the door, and her eyes went a little wide. "Well, Mark Darcy, you have succeeded in totally surprising me," she said. "I didn't even know you knew this place existed."

"I live to surprise you, darling," he said, realising a moment too late that he had used the endearment. It didn't seem to bother her. In fact, she seemed very much to approve.

Once inside, the light was low, but enough to see her attire when he helped her out of that coat. It took his breath away. Deep, rich crimson, snug to her body, and calf-length, a little longer than she usually wore. The skirt flared out ever so slightly as she turned to face him, and it was only then he saw the plunging neckline framing her favourite necklace.

She reached up and, with a devilish smile, touched just under his chin; he realised that maybe his mouth _had_ gaped open a bit, because she looked absolutely gorgeous.

"Lovely," he murmured, his eyes fixed the hint of cleavage visible, before lifting his gaze to meet her eyes. 'Lovely' was an understatement, but he couldn't very well take her into his arms right there and snog her senseless. But oh, he hoped to do that later.

He checked her coat then turned to escort her towards the main room of the… nightclub? Restaurant? It was more of a combination of the two, because while there were many tables for two along the outer edge of the room, there was also a large cleared area meant for dancing, and a live band what was playing romantic songs for slow dancing. Many couples were already moving slowly around, taking advantage of it. Bridget saw these couples dancing, heard the music, then she looked to him, puzzled. "I thought you didn't like to dance."

"I don't usually dance," he said. "But with you… well. An obvious exception."

She smiled, then took his hand in her own.

They were shown to their reserved table. He pushed her seat in, then went and took his own.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"I don't know what to say," she said. "You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" She was smiling, though, so he knew she was teasing.

"I hoped I was reading the signs correctly," he said, reaching for her hand again, clasping it gently in his own. "I would never want to pressure you."

"Mark," she said quietly. "You were. I mean—"

His heart sunk.

Before she could finish her thought, a server came by to take a drink order—he decided on a gin and tonic, she wanted a champagne cocktail—and then advised she would be right back with them and the starters from the special set Valentine's Day menu. Then she looked back to Mark. "I meant you were reading the signs right, _not_ that you were pressuring me." She laughed a little nervously. " _God_. I almost fucked it up in the first five minutes."

He began to chuckle too, feeling relieved.

The drinks and the starters arrived. He raised his glass. "To you, Bridget," he said. "For giving me a chance again."

"You've learnt your lesson," she said, rather than asked.

"I have."

"Good." She touched her glass to his, then together they took a drink. The starters were prawn-laden skewers, four of them, butter-drizzled and sprinkled with sweet chilli over a bed of red cabbage; the prawns were arranged on the skewers to form four little hearts. "Well, that's clever, isn't it?" she asked, grinning, picking up one of them.

He picked up the second, and playfully, she touched hers to his, as if in a secondary toast.

Once they finished the starters and their drinks, Mark glanced to the dance floor, then to her. "Care to dance?"

"Sure, though I warn you, that was a really strong drink," she joked.

He rose, held his hand out to her, and then led her to where other couples were swirling about the floor. He then swung her around, slipping into the long ingrained dance posture—his right hand around to her upper back, her right hand in his left—and then took the lead as they moved across the floor.

They swayed back and forth to the music, turning in gentle, rhythmic circles. Before long, the whole formal dance posture had fallen to pieces; his right arm had slipped to settle around her waist, pulling her close to him, drawing his left hand in, still holding hers. His cheek was pressed to her temple; his eyes, closed. He took in a deep breath. She smelled of the same sweet, spicy perfume she always loved so much, the one he had always associated with her whenever he chanced across it. He exhaled, splaying his hand across her back, reflexively pressing her against him.

Over the sound of the music and of the chatter of other couples, he heard her make a soft sound. He drew back just far enough to look into her eyes, and when he did, she lifted herself up on her toes and pressed her lips to his, bringing her arms up around his neck, parting her lips and kissing him passionately.

His hands moved down from her hips, but before he could cup her backside, he remembered where they were, and instead drew gently away. "Bridget," he said, his voice shot through with unsteadiness. "We're in the middle of the dance floor…"

"Sorry, oh God, I'm sorry," she murmured, placing her hand on his flushed cheek. "Going to be hard, er, for you get back to our table with your dignity intact, isn't it?"

He couldn't help but chuckle a little; there was no sense in denying what she could clearly feel. "Maybe just a bit."

She attempted to restore their dancing posture and ride out the rest of the song, and when it finished, he was able to make the short walk back to the table without drawing undue attention.

The main course arrived shortly after their return, along with wine: lobster tails with butter, saffron rice, and a fresh green salad on the side. "Good thing I like seafood," she said, winking playfully as she dug into the dish.

They ate in a pleasant silence; the food was exquisite. He saw that for other tables, there was another pause between the meal and the dessert, to allow for another dance or two. He set down his fork, set his cloth napkin down on the table beside the plate. "Shall we have another go?" he asked, tilting his head towards the dance floor.

"I'll try to control myself this time," she said with a grin.

They gave up all pretence of the formal dance posture; instead, he placed his hands on her waist, and her hands rested on his upper arms. They moved to the music. Before long she had drawn close again, resting her temple against his chin, his arms around her in an embrace. They didn't talk, but they didn't really need to. He hadn't felt quite so happy, so content, in quite some time, and he hoped she felt the same.

As the second song ended, he pressed a kiss into her hair before she drew away. "Dessert should be coming soon," he said. "Something chocolate, if memory serves."

She regarded him with another smile. "If it had been anything else, I'd've had to insist we go early," she said. She turned then and walked back to the table; it occurred to him that she'd meant for him to take her home.

Dessert turned out to be a chocolate raspberry mousse with a dollop of fresh, unsweetened whipped cream on top, and two demitasse cups of espresso. The look of bliss on her face told him everything he needed to know about how she'd liked it.

After she'd set down the empty espresso cup, she reached over for his hand again. "This was a really, _really_ great night, Mark. Thank you."

"I'm glad," he said. "It was my pleasure." He ran his thumb over the soft skin on the back of her hand. "One more dance?"

"Yes," she said, "but not here."

He took her meaning.

He helped her into his coat then donned his own, leading her with a gently guiding hand on her back to the car, then opening the door for her. She turned and smiled at him, her eyes shining bright, and for a moment he thought she might kiss him as she had before in that same position, but she didn't. She just sat down.

He understood. He didn't want to start anything he couldn't finish yet, either.

Once beside her again in the driver's seat, he turned to her. "Where do you want to go now?" he asked.

"Home with you," she said.

Right.

The drive back to his house seemed interminable with her hand resting atop his, nails grazing the skin there. He had decided earlier that if they were to go home together, he would take her to his house. He remembered what a point of contention it had been that they had always gone to her place and not his, like he didn't want to bring her into his home, his world. He needed her to know this wasn't true. He wanted her in his home, in his life. He wanted _her_.

If she was surprised to see him pull into his own drive, she didn't show it. She seemed happy, even calm, and she smiled at him as he turned off the engine.

"This is an interesting turn of events," she said.

"I'm full of surprises," he teased.

She giggled.

They were barely inside of the house, barely out of their coats and she out of her high-heeled shoes, when she turned, grasped him at the back of his neck, grazing her nails through the short hair at the nape, and kissed him desperately. He wrapped his arms around her, grasping her arse as he'd wanted to do before, pulling her tightly against him.

"Quietest dance ever," she whispered as she drew back, running her fingers back though his hair.

"There doesn't have to be music you can hear," he said.

"That might be the most profound thing you've ever said."

He kneaded his fingers into her backside, his desire building.

"Damn all of those stairs, anyway," she murmured.

It was a temptation to sweep her off to the sitting room for the settee, but he summoned his will, stepped back, holding out his hand. "I'm not sure I could round the corners with you swept up in my arms," he said, "but I could try if you really wanted me to."

She grinned. "I don't think that'll be necessary."

They scaled the stairs up to the third level, his hand resting on her hip; it was upon reaching the hallway that he could smell the sweet scent coming from the master suite beyond the closed door. She could smell it too, and she looked to him. He tried his best to affect an innocent expression, but he wasn't particularly convincing. He reached and open the door.

The room wasn't filled with roses, only their redolence; there were two dozen in vases on the bureau, and the buds were just open enough. He stepped forward and switched on the floor lamp, which filled the room with the warm glow of low light.

"You planned _this_ ," she said. "I mean, wow, talk about being sure of yourself."

He knew she was teasing, yet he wondered if he had somehow assumed a little too much. Why would she keep mentioning it, otherwise? "I hope I'm not wrong," he said.

"Oh, no, you're not wrong," she said. "Don't worry about that."

"Oh, good," he said. "Then you won't mind this, either."

"Hmm?"

He walked over to the bureau and picked up a small rectangular box, then brought it to her and handed it to her.

"What's this?"

"Well, open it and find out."

She gave him a sidelong glance, still smiling, then slipped the paper off around the edge and pulled off the lid, revealing what was inside.

"Oh my God," she said, lifting the slender, sinuous silver bracelet up; on it, a small charm, a pale blue gem in the form of a shining heart, which took the scant light in the room and scattered it about. "I don't know what to say. I…" She looked from it back up to him; her eyes were glistening with emotion. "Thank you. It's gorgeous."

The gemstone's blue had reminded him of her eyes, and the heart… well, it was Valentine's, after all. "You're welcome," he said. "Shall I?"

She nodded. He came forward to help to clasp the bracelet around her wrist.

"You remembered I like silver."

"Of course," he said, fixing it in place, then taking her hand. "I mean it, Bridget. I've learnt my lesson. I wanted to show you how very serious I am about not making that kind of mistake again."

"I may just have to believe you, then," she said softly.

It was not as if they hadn't slept together before, but with the number of months that it'd been since he had last shared a bed with her, since they were last a couple, he felt as if it were a first time all over again. He slipped out of his own shirt and trousers, then helped her out of that gorgeous red dress to find a similarly crimson lace bra and pant set beneath it. His heart raced at the sight of her in them, in the thigh-high stockings; his gaze lingered at the way her breasts filled the bra cups to the point of overflowing, at the elastic of the pants biting ever so slightly into her hip, rounded, soft, and fitting perfectly against the palm of his hand.

"Bridget," he said quietly, pushing a lock of her hair behind her ear; immediately it escaped and brushed along her cheek again. "I love you."

She met his gaze. No hesitation, no fear. "I love you, too."

This time, when he started to kiss her, he didn't worry a bit about assuming too much.

He slipped his hands across her hips, then down and over her backside, pressing his fingers into her skin, slipping under the fabric. A soft sound filled his mouth. His fingers teased between her legs, slipped against the wetness. She moaned.

 _God, I've missed you_ , he thought, one arm around her waist, one hand between her legs, fingers driving up into her, making her squirm in his arms and make unintelligible sounds into his mouth. Months since he'd had a woman in his arms that responded in ways that only drove him more wild. Months since he'd had _her_ in his arms.

"Oh God, Mark, I—"

She didn't need to finish the sentence. He knew exactly what she had been about to say, with the way she began to shudder and twitch against him as she climaxed.

She was hanging on to him tightly as she regained her breath, as he grasped under her thighs and lifted her up so that he might carry her to the bed. He pushed the duvet and sheets aside hastily, set her down—

Quicker than he was expecting, she had the waistband of his boxers and tugged them down, catching a very firm erection momentarily with them… then she grasped his backside and dove upon him with her mouth. She pulled her lips tightly around him, teasing the tip with her tongue; he muttered curses under his breath because this was not how he wanted to come with her, not what he'd planned.

But it felt good, felt _so fucking good_ , and it was only the matter of a few iterations of the motion of her head, of the expert application of her lips and tongue—as well as her nimble fingers cupping and massaging him—before he was arching forward and coming hard. He could feel her fingernails pricking at the skin of his arse, somehow spurring him on, until he sucked in a great long breath and felt his legs give out from under him.

He landed on the bed atop her, breathing erratically, finding her mouth and kissing her, growing hard again already.

 _Oh, I want you_ , he thought, _I want to fuck you_ , and, as if he had just conjured some kind of magic spell, she parted her legs and tilted her hips, offering herself to him in no uncertain terms.

He did not hesitate. He drew himself up, guided himself to her then drove forward, and he drove quite forcefully. She cried out loudly as he repeated this intense thrusting until he became uncertain where he ended and she began, as if he wanted to merge completely with her. He felt the lace brushing against his chest, felt where her skin met the thigh-highs, and he groaned and moaned with each push. Shakily he pushed his fingers between where their bodies met, so as to press that magic spot between her legs, hoping to hear her and feel her come again before he did. He knew he wasn't going to last much longer.

She made a throaty sound then bucked up; the climax overtook her. He let go of the last thread of his own restraint, and with one last drive forward he came again, too.

With a final moan, the pair of them stilled, taking in great gulps of breath, clinging to one another in an almost desperate fashion. At that moment, it felt to Mark as if his life depended on it to have as much of her touching as much of him as possible.

"Love you," she breathed, then kissed his neck with her open mouth, licking his skin, swirling whorls with her tongue. He washed over with absolute bliss, stroking his hand over her skin, reaching for the bra clasp, then pulling away the halves enough to bare her breasts so that he might touch her there, too.

He heard her chuckle a little. "We're kind of coming at this the wrong way 'round," she said, her voice raspy from all of her heavy breathing.

"Darling, there is no wrong way to come in this bed tonight," he said, running his palm, his thumb over her hardened nipple.

"You may have a— _Oh!_ —point," she said, as he took that hard point into his mouth, burying his face into her breasts, running his tongue over it, grazing his teeth against it. The sounds she made, the way she writhed beneath him…

Beautiful and lush, in every way his perfect lover—why had he ever aspired to anyone else? What a fool he'd been. What a damned fool. He thought—hoped—he'd amply paid his penance.


	5. Chapter 5: Epilogue

**Substance & Style**

By S. Faith, © 2016  
Words: 25,937  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

 **June**

"Bridget, I can't take it anymore."

He was serious, and his seriousness must have shown on his face, because she looked positively stricken. "What?" she asked. "What did I do?"

"It's what you _haven't_ done," he said, then held up the carrier bag. "It's been more than six months, and it's time I took care of this." He reached into the bag, pulled up a small bucket of joint filler and a filling knife. Then he offered her a smile.

"You _bastard_ ," she said with a relieved laugh, smacking him playfully on the chest. "Mark, I love you, but you don't know how to fix a wall."

"I've done some reading," he said, drawing out the patch kit next from the bag, then the DIY book he had picked up. "The hole isn't that big. I can do this."

She smiled a little more wistfully. "My hero," she said. "I suppose I am getting tired of looking at that awful reminder. And who better to mend this hole but you, eh?"

She sat with him as he prepped the patch material, reading the book and asking her to prompt him with each next step. Before long the hole was transformed from a fist-shaped indentation to a smooth patch of white.

"Do you still have the paint from this room?" he asked as he packed everything he'd used back into the carrier bag.

She said nothing; he turned to see that she was looking blankly at him.

"Never mind," he said. "Maybe we could just… repaint this whole wall here."

"Ugh, really?" she asked. "The wall's practically white already. If you squint you can't even see the patched bit anymore."

"Bridget, you'll never be able to list your flat with an unfinished patched wall."

"List my flat where?"

He loved her dearly, but sometimes he had to laugh at how oblivious she could be. He reached into his carrier bag once more, pulled up a small box that had managed to get a smear of joint filler on it. Only now did he feel a bit nervous. But he had learned all too recently that it paid to be brave and take the chance.

"With an estate agent," he said quietly.

"But I'm not selling—"

She stopped short at seeing that he held something out for her. "I hope you'll consider it," he said, "I mean, if you accept."

She clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Maybe it's too soon," he said resignedly, lowering his hand. He hadn't really stopped to consider that it had been only just over six months since Kevin's proposal, and barely four months since they had gotten back together. "I'm sorry. I…"

"Shut up and let me have that," she said, reaching for the box, snagging it from his hand. "Is this what I think it is?"

"If you think it's a key to a new Vespa, then no, it's not."

"You arse," she said, laughing and hiccoughing with a sob, then opened the box. "Oh my God." She looked up at him. "It's silver. It matches the bracelet."

"I do love that shade of blue," he said. He came close to her, took the ring out of its box. "You don't have to give me an answer right away. But I hope you will. And I hope it'll be 'yes'."

"Ohh," she said, looking up into his eyes. "I get it now. Selling the flat to move in with you."

He laughed lightly. "Yes."

"Because we'd be married," she said. "And living together."

"Yes."

She looked thoughtful, then she said, "You'd better give that to me then, before you get that stuff all over it." She held out her hand, then smiled.

"Really?" he said.

"Mm-hmm."

"It's not too soon?"

"You daft cow, I'm saying 'yes'."

Indeed, it paid to be brave.

 **The end.**


End file.
